Virginia
A boy and a girl sat upon the sand. A mist hung beneath a sky of gray.
He said I like the way the water laps upon the shore. Not an angry sea shouting himself hoarse against the wind, the shore taking the rage upon herself until the sea, exhausted, lay sleeping in her arms. This water is different. More like a child playing about while Mother watches her from a distance, the occasional laugh, maybe bothering Mother with a question before running away again, always within sight, rolling about in that happy moment between hungry and sleepy.
She said tame.
He said perhaps.
She said I don’t like tame things. I like things before they are tame, before they are owned, before they have given up, little subservient creatures begging for treats, frightened of being themselves, of daring to see who they are, burying I want beneath I ought, trading the sharp challenge of a rainstorm, the cold slow taunt of a blizzard for a warm fire and a hot cup of tea, a gentle hand through your hair, a soothing voice telling you it will be better if only you surrender.
He said lonely.
She said perhaps.
He said I like it here. I’m a little colder than I want to be, and I’m pretty sure my butt is wet, though maybe it’s just cold, and my ears, too, where if I bothered to pull my hands out of my pockets and put them on my ears, I would feel the warmth of my hands upon them and wish I had brought a hat, and I’m probably a little hungry, though without the scent of food to nudge me, it’s hard to know. As I sit here, though, the cold, the hunger, the wet, doesn’t seem to matter. It’s like there is this space where, as long as I don’t move too much, as long as I allow myself to sit inside of it, I can feel a sort of slowing down, a comforting pace that conspires with my mind to hold me here, to whisper in my ear, as long as you don’t move, as long as you keep still, you will not feel the cold, the damp, the hunger, as long as you sit inside of this moment, I will hold you, comfort you.
She said content.
He said perhaps.
She said I wish I was somewhere else. I wish I was doing, I wish I was making, I wish I had something in my hands I could make into something else, push the cacophony in my mind to my fingers, force it out of its cage and into the world, show itself, bear itself with boldness, not seep out drop by drop, but burst, explode, scream itself out of me that I might see it, watch it at the moment of its birth, daring the world to accept it, to push this mess out of my head, to make sense of the cacophony, the voices I can’t understand but are desperate to be understood.
He said impatient.
She said perhaps.
He said my voices are not ready. They are too angry, little more than a raging tempest, a child throwing a tantrum, screaming, crying, flailing its arms about, demanding to be set free but unequipped to join the world, to be meaningful, to bring love. I need times like this, places like this, little prisons where the raging toddler can bounce herself against the walls, scream at the top of her lungs, wear herself out until she is ready to put the world before herself. Not tear the blindness from her eyes, but let it fall away. To allow the noise to drift away and leave only one voice. A warm porch light cutting through the darkness, drifting across the water.
She said dilute.
He said perhaps.
She said I prefer the light of a star to the light of a home, a view into the deep past, a determined stream travelling across unfathomable distance only to be stopped by my eye, by my intransigence, a traveler born before women walked the earth, crossing the galaxy one moment at a time, witness of worlds beyond measure, a wave stretching from across the vastness of space, heroic, daring, only to be outshone by the mundane welcome light of a porch across the water, not even seconds old, servant of frightened people who can’t bear to face the darkness.
He said wanderlust.
She said perhaps.
He said I like this mist, tiny droplets dappling my skin, my clothes, each vying with the other for a space of its own, a dry spot to visit, to transform, each drop almost a sound, quiet, gentle like the lapping of the water upon the shore, some rolling off my clothes, my hair, some absorbing, hardly wet in themselves, laying upon my skin even as it holds them at bay, wet on the outside, wet on the inside, droplets from different worlds, a hair’s breadth apart, never to meet. This gentle blanket of raindrops that hardly brushes against me wraps me in cold comfort, a reminder of where I am, of who I am, of what I am made.
She said love.
He said perhaps.
She said there is a moment after the storm, a moment when the sun creeps out from behind the clouds, when the air still hangs with the danger of maybe the storm might come back, but you sit there, watching the enormous clouds drift apart and wonder at the calm that can bear itself from such rage. Not the perfection of a rainbow, but a storm in itself, a storm of paint bouncing off the angry clouds, filling the sky with bold colors, demanding attention. I like the discord of sunsets, of all the voices showing themselves at once, dancing next to each other, fighting for the briefest opportunity to show themselves, the first hint of late afternoon long dead by the time the last streak of red tears across the sky.
He said tranquility.
She said perhaps.
He said when I came here, when I walked down the path to the lake, I expected to sit alone, lonely, at the shore, inspired by a sunset, to let the massiveness of it inspire me, prick a tiny hole to let the roiling, discordant choir in my mind leak out, simplify, reduce itself down to a quiet harmony. I am sad to have missed it. That the sun never broke free. That it snuck away, unseen, beneath a blanket of gray that only grew darker. I have been left waiting at a station for a friend who never showed.
She said forlorn.
He said perhaps.
She said I like to be alone. To find my thoughts, my song. To hear nothing but what comes from my head, to visit with it, shed the distractions of vapid talk and make space for the voices to speak. In my head, the conversation is vibrant, bold, dangerous. When I’m with people, when all the words come from outside of me, there is too much noise, too much distraction. I can’t hear anything. I miss myself and ache to be alone. They slip into corners, into shadow, make themselves too quiet to be heard.
He said shy.
She said perhaps.
As dark gray turned to black, and mist to drizzle, a boy and a girl shifted their bodies.
He said I should go. I can feel it now. Feel that the moment is over. I notice my ears now. Can smell dinner coming down the hill. I’m anxious about the lapping water. I can hear each fall, each plop, a disjointed rhythm drummed upon the shore. I can feel the damp seeping through my pants. I’ve gone from comfortable to nervous. I’ve remembered what’s waiting for me back in the world. The world apart from this. This moment. This place.
She said mournful.
He said perhaps.
She said I should go too.
A boy and a girl rose from the sand and walked together, up a lonely path to a place where it broke in two, each going their separate ways.