After perfunctory greetings, we slipped- out of habit more than intention- into small talk. I grow frustrated. I had been waiting to speak to Emily, my ex, for more than a month, since well before she boarded the St. Marie, a tall ship with an all women crew designed to teach adolescent girls that sailing was no longer a boys only game. Knowing each sailor only got an hour of talk time per week on the ship to shore phone, we could hardly afford to be evasive in our word choices.

I cleared my throat and whispered, “I love you. You do know that, right?”

A moment’s silence and then Emily continued over brightly. “You’d love it here. I can just see you sitting on deck, typing away on your laptop.”

“What? Didn’t you hear me?”

“No, I heard you. It’s just I’ve heard it before.”