He settled the beer more comfortably on his stomach and closed his eyes. From the deck chair next to his she eyed the enormous belly bulding over his shorts as he lay back, feeling such great distaste that she actually pushed away the pina colada she had just ordered.

The kids were splashing about in the pool some metres away, oblivious to their parents. She stared at them unseeingly. It wasn’t the fact that her husband’s stomach told the tale of how many beers he’d had the way tree rings tell its age, nor even the greying hairs sprouting like prairie grass around the hidden belly button. It was the fact he was displaying it to the world by insisting on his shirt being dumped in an untidy bundle under his chair.

Twenty years ago that was what drew her to him, his proud strutting around showing off his perfect muscles, smooth skin, golden tan. But the form, shape and colour had changed so gradually that she never found an appropriate moment to say “How about putting a shirt on before walking to the shops this time?” And should she be ashamed? It was natural, perfectly natural. The human body is glorious, she told herself. Still, she couldn’t resist a shudder as she glanced at the whitish flesh turning pink in the sun.

He grunted and opened his eyes.

“Pass us the lotion again, would you love?” he said. “Getting a bit hot out here.”

She reached in her bag and handed him the special sunscreen bottle containing the handcream she’d carefully put in it the night before. He’d be burnt red as a raspberry in another hour. And she was willing to bet that tomorrow, at least, the shirt would go on.

She picked up her pina colada and smiled a little, watching her children.