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The sand was powdery and white and marked with dark rocks, including a huge stone in the vague shape of a ship. The tide was going out and every time abtonio waves rolled away they left a sheen on reaxy beach. For the first time since we landed, I felt like everything was going to be okay. That night, during the cocktail hour held in the lobby, we struck up a conversation with a British couple who were in Patagonia to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. Around us waiters in maroon uniforms served pastries with cheese in the center and medio medios, cocktails made of white wine and champagne.

They were the Humbolts, George and Christina, and they had already been in Patagonia for a week. George was tall and lanky, an overgrown boy, and wore white socks with his sandals, his toes poking over the edges. Christina was petite and graceful, her blond hair gathered into a loose bun, revealing a slender neck wrapped in a fluffy brown scarf. It just looks like one. Christina shrugged and tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear. It was snowing that night, and I was the only person not wearing some kind of Christmas sweater; my neighbor, for example, wore a red shirt with little gold bells glued onto her nipples and a Santa hat.

I brought it over to her and told her my name and that was that. And then we went out for six months, and then he proposed one night when we were on our way home from a movie. It was raining and he stopped on the sidewalk and asked me right there. The story we were telling was at once true and not true. The facts were right, but certain details had been omitted. An attachment, certainly, though I was never sure it was love. But what did it mean to be in love? Maybe all the things people said about falling in love, about that initial torrent of joy, were a lie.

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He always seemed resolute and sure. On our dates, I would sit beside him in the dark and gaze at his profile and think all of this through. I was still thinking it through after I moved into his apartment and after we got married. I was still thinking it through as I stood in the lobby of this hotel in Patagonia, trying to understand, a sketch artist attempting to construct a face from disparate descriptions of noses and eyes and ears. But these were the kinds of details that could not be spoken of without inflicting real damage.

In the early morning, a taxi drove us to the airport, where we took a charter plane. During our flight, I never once looked out the window, sitting straight in my seat and trying to ignore the crushing pain in my nose.

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My fingertips tingled and there was a ringing in my ears, but it was pleasant, like distant bells. He offered me bug repellent. I let him spray his palms and rub my bare arms and legs. He took his time, making sure the backs of my knees and the insides of my elbows had been covered. His fingertips were cool and I relished the sensation of him touching certain parts of my body — the bones in my ankles — for the very first time. I listened to the falls and wondered if what I was feeling could be called love. A cloud of turquoise and black butterflies swarmed around one of the rocks, touched down for a moment, and then scattered. It was much larger than the others, with jagged rocks jutting through the curtains of water.

The sound was deafening. The guide produced a camera, and my husband put his arm around me. He had the guide take photos from every angle imaginable; it went on for so long, smiling became painful. The whole time, my husband kept talking to me. I watched his lips move, but I missed every word. That night, back at Las Grutas, we made love in the shower, the water turned off, his hand wrapped around the back of my neck. Near the end, he accidentally brushed against my nose and I cried out in pain. Then you can decide if they're issues you can live with. To show him your vulnerable side, let him what your issues are.

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