Of Holidays and Habit

Last summer we went to New York; I'd never been before, so he took the opportunity to act as my guide, pointing out landmarks and places to visit as we lazed on the rooftop of our building, courtesy of absent friends, with the cool breeze gently ruffling our hair. He grabbed my hand and showed me; if you lie right down on your belly and then slide forward slowly, slowly, you can dip your head over the sheer drop and people watch.

He described the city as a 'mislaid part of Europe', but I didn't fall in love with it as completely as he did, despite his near constant sales pitch.

He's always had a thing for heights, and a magic ability to make me face them; for me, a wave of vertigo marks most of our holidays together- that first one in Wales (yes, I know) had an impact that lasted far longer than the hideous stick of rock he insisted we buy 'in keeping with tradition'. Now, when I'm hit with the saline tang of the sea I feel a dizzying wave of vertigo and remember the warmth of his hand on mine as he tugged me far too close for comfort to the cliff edge.

So you can imagine my horror when he suggested a week long trip to Turkey in July- I'm going to visit my maternal grandparents in North Cyprus for a month soon after, so it's sort of a stop off trip.
Can I say no?
No, and I'm not sure I want to; I've spent most of my life trying to prolong our time together, and it's a hard habit to break.

I just know at some point during that week we'll end up on a cliff somewhere with him gently insisting I face the edge, as I battle with memories of looking straight down at a grey sea battering the rocks beneath our feet with unrelenting fury, and the sea spray cool against my face, and the heady warmth of him as he stood close behind me, arms clasped round my waist.