At dusk, everything changed. The evergreen stained the pale sky like ink, spiny arms against the sleepy blue. The forest breathed, released of its daytime innocence and we minded it with caution, crouching along the grassy outskirts, still visible with the gray moon. The lake was glittering black, the reflection covered by the pollen of old dandelions, a pool of ancient desires. Like shiny eyes, the water was quiet and passive, but fingers of algae held the same menace as the woods, a silent threat that left us giggling with nervous tensions, goose bumps on our arms.
We weren’t quite children, clinging to the wet weeds, but the boisterous laughter erupting from the distant flames reminded us that all were young under the mischievous twinkle of the constellations, a whisper of release that disappeared with the sun. And so our careless bare toes twitched in the moss, the scabs on our knees itchy with the dew.
There were no clouds to blanket our tipsy flirtation, and it was a game to see who would venture the furthest despite the whispering gibes and intimidating darkness.
The pondering boys with curly hair and nudging elbows were our designated catch, an understanding that boys will be boys and their competitive pushiness showed their willingness to take full advantage of the endless dusk. In the morning there would be giggling and happy gossip for those persuaded into the woods. For some, that was enough.
There was a solemn shadow on the edge of the lake, the cherry of a cigarette shining like an orange eye, beckoning me with an ashy wink. He smelled of whiskey, of mud, of honesty, and his hard gaze felt like a challenge. He was a ghost on the water, a tormenting trophy.
The boys slipped hungrily in the mud, a lure, as if I didn’t notice his arrogant, insidious invitation.
The lapping of water followed my footsteps, and even the fog in my eyes couldn’t douse his expecting silhouette. Though quarrels of a sober morning echoed with his smirk, the touchable tendrils of potential made him seem like a stranger.
It was a complicated game, see, to warily step around confessions, a tentative push at boundaries, testing their pliability. Every breath had a taste of excitement, of tantalizing persuasion. He was right about me, every accusation true, and to take the bait would be to admit a smoldering hatred, a desperate passion. But the breeze assured me that day would never come, a mocking anthem of summer.
“You know.” A quiet tremor betrayed his casual façade. The quiet words echoed off the pollen, and a staggering stillness ensued as I realized our seclusion under the summer lightening. “You know, sometimes I feel like I’m driving too fast, like I’m missing all the signs.
I smiled, bold and laconic in the absence of time, amazed with this boy, teeming with a certain inferno.
I said his name, pulling carefully at the syllables. I hesitated, but his earnest blue eyes killed my common sense. “If you want to kiss me, just kiss me. I don’t know how to give a clearer sign.” Not quite his tenor hymn, but in the hazy mute of the mountains I felt an enchantment raining from the stars.
Finally: “Okay.”
A husky word breathed against my cheek, not giving me time to grasp the unconscious amazement swooping through my rib cage.
He was angry with the passion of a cast line, a fisherman far from lonely, and for a second I could see a boy, who lacked brutal words and aged retinas. A boy who set his jacket upon mine, who left notes written in blue on the desk, who regretted every time he slowly pulled off his boot. Just a boy.
I pulled away, afraid of a reality never meant to be mine. But it was too late, and while the truth seemed mutual, the devastation seemed mine to bear.
There was rueful triumph in his voice, mocking my inability to regret the melting darkness.
“Well.” Well.
Finally, I met his eyes. They looked like the lake, black, and full of old superstitions.
With the usual brandishing of ill intentions and harsh denial, I could feel the spell begin to crumble into the water, leaving precious few moments of veracity, in which I willed the world to stop.
But I was faced with the image of morning, horrified by the dawn where the only evidence of deliverance was charred logs and leftover smoke. The thought of awakening filled my stomach with a clench of agony in preparation for impossible endurance. At my silence, an expression of robotic indifference hardened his jaw.
I felt alone in the dark, suddenly aware of the light mist. I turned, begging for him to stop me, screaming it from every pore of my existence. The silence remained, and I forced myself into the lingering haze, and away from the shadow on the lake a fisherman never alone, forever lonely.