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1.
Mating Ritual
Behind the boxwood hedge where the fireflies were thickest, I waited every
evening. They hung their bodies in the cooling night, hung them out,
flashing twice for "Yes?" once for "Yes!" I flashed my torch twice towards
his house, miles away, in another town now. I flashed and flashed but my
only answer came from the night: the keening of crickets.
2.
Launch
Randall looked guilty and Billy had been crying. The boys were summering in,
not easing into it but chasing it full force, red-nosed and crispy--the way
kids get that first week out of school--and they were pushing limits. The
kitten lay dead between them, tangled in a
crabbing net. "I swear, it was swimming, I swear it was!"
"Well it's not swimming now, is it."
"We were teaching it. We thought we could save it with the net, Christie."
"Do you know how stupid you sound?"
Whimper.
I was watching them, I swear, but the sun was so warm. Tanning in the yard
across the street, I closed my eyes. Just for a minute.
I thought I was so mature but I was helpless right now. My eighteen years of
wisdom weren't coming through with any solutions for me at a time like this.
Mom was going to be devastated and I was going to get blamed for it.
All the regret in the world wasn't bringing back that kitten. I guess Randy
even tried CPR on it. He said he did, anyway. Saw it on TV. But it just lay
there, limp and wet, boneless as it was lifeless when I picked it up from
where the water lapped at it. The salt stung my
cheeks as I turned away from them, into the wind. My eyes blurred up and I
spoke to it softly, sang to it, and pretended I could make it all right
again.
I walked down the ramp until I was waist deep in the sound. "What are you doing?" "Don't let it go!" Bring it back up here, Christie!" I floated it in the water, righted it so that it did look like it was swimming, almost. I let my salt mix with the salt water all around me, but I pulled the kitten back up into my arms and cradled it across my chest.
"Dig the grave, assholes," I shot over my shoulder. I just stood there and
rocked it, let the water rock me.
3.
Hum
Every day I worry about something. Mostly, I worry he won't show. I know
that my own smell is deafening in this July swelter, and I worry about that.
But he likes it. I scream for him with my body; he reads me. He is always
late. I lie on the bed and breathe, slowly, in
cycles. The fan hums. I count off the time in ever-widening intervals until
I've slowed myself, slowed down to almost unconscious, but I stay present,
to wait. When I get to five breaths in five minutes, I know I can wait as
long as it takes. He saw the note I left for him. When I passed it
again this afternoon, it was pinned upside down. I know he knows to come
tonight. I will wait for him. Time will drift. The hours will melt. I will
worry, then dissolve it; he will come.
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