She shouted across the table, “Pass the salt, please.”
He mouthed “What?”
“The salt. Pass the salt.”
The rain was steadily pounding on the metal roof, like an endless stream of machine-gun fire. It had been raining for three days. The green season in Costa Rica was like that. She leaned forward in her chair, reached across the table, and snatched the salt shaker before her forward momentum peaked and she rocked back in her seat empty handed.
“Oh,” he said. “The salt. I thought you said something was my fault.”
The sound of the large tropical drops echoed and magnified in the cavernous living room. It sounded like bacon frying in a giant hot skillet. If he focused on her mouth, perhaps he could read her lips and watch her gestures to figure out what she was saying. It would rain for the entire month of October, and it was only the third. At least the jungle would be a vibrant emerald and the flowers would be brilliant. They could enjoy the view and not have to talk. And that was fine with him.