The man juggles his keys and motorcycle helmet, cigarette dangling from his anti-passionate lips. These lips have spoken words they shouldn’t have and have not said words they should. His wife sits alone in their flat meditating on his silence, asking God for answers. Thirty-four years of togetherness and there have been so few words. He is more of a man of sights and sounds; an admirer of the land rolling before him and the notes of any little jazz ditty whispering to his ears a feeling that everything will be okay.

The motorcycle backs up, his short, hairy legs exposed in orange sports shorts and his toes breathing fresh air while moving over the cheap, plastic sandals she had bought him as an apology gift. Sandals for a “sorry”. That was her kind of concept of togetherness.

They both had confusion around devotion. Passion. Even love. But life so often only reminds you of the truth, especially after thirty years and many pairs of “sorry” sandals. They are the kind of gift that always falls apart.

They had met as young people cruising the streets of Faro with their friends. The cobblestones and graffiti on the walls led them to the discotheque and the dancing led to a child. Nine months after two dances and they were facing a sentence of at least twenty years—forty or fifty if they tried. Children are made from the discotheque. It is something every young adult should know. That, and the reality of sorry sandals.

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