There once was a woman– no, a girl – who had beauty, but she was stupid to it.
“Give me your hand,” Boy-mouth says.
Head shaken. “I don’t know you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You could drown me.”
Boy-eyes stare at her. She can see them through the dark. “Or,
maybe you’ll tip the boat.”
Boy-smile. “It is what it is.”
Head shaken. “Let’s not make it what it isn’t.” “Let it
go.”
Girl-eyes stare. He can see them. All of them except their color and the mascara canopying them. “Give me your hand.”
Girl-hand given to boy-hand. Painted toes lift from grass and step through dark and feel the cool boat-bottom.
Boy moves to the back seat of the boat. Girl smiles as it ripples and sways gently in the water. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Boy counters her weight.
“Row me to the middle.”
Boy-jaw shifts. “Sit down.”
Girl and boy silhouette the moonlit darkness– finally sitting, not touching but facing each other. Boy-arms tense and row, and tense and row. Painted toes tap the boat-bottom. Little taps plinking against the metal boat then echoing out into the lake. Reaching the not-faraway-yet shore. Reaching a shadowed house with the kitchen lights still on. An elderly couple—man sitting at the kitchen table drinking something, maybe tea, iced; woman washing dishes at the sink.
Girl looks at boy looking out towards the rowed-for middle. Girl-smile and phone screen lighting up her face. Girl-lips yawn and her fingers rub her eyes. They wouldn’t if there was mascara and concealer to smear, but there isn’t any because she no longer lies. Girl-voice, “It’s midnight.”
“New day.”
“Let’s not make it what it isn’t.” “Why
do you say that?”
“It’sfrom a song.” “What
song?”
“A super good one.” Girl-hum. “I heard it yesterday for the first time and haven’t listened to anything since.”
Boy-brows furrow, “Nothing at all?” “Just
that song over and over and over.” “You’re
lying.”
“I don’t.”
“Nothing but the same song over and over. That’ll drive you crazy.”
Girl-hum continues. “I didn’t know that ‘till now.” And girl-eyes flick back to the couple—man picks up glass, throws back the rest of its contents, takes it to the kitchen sink, sets it dirty beside his wife’s pile of new clean.
Boy-muscles still tensing and rowing and tensing and rowing. “Look at the moon.”
Girl puts her phone down beside her on the bench seat. Girl-hair lowers to her waist as her head tips back so her girl-eyes can look at the moon.
Tensing and rowing.
Girl-voice, “It seems biggertonight.” “It’s all perception.”
Girl-hand clenches together– painted nails digging into lotioned palm. “How do you know?”
Boy slides the oars beneath the bench seats. They rest on the boat-bottom. Boy lifts his hand to his right eye and closes the other. “Try this.” Boy-face lifts toward the moon. He positions his pointer and thumb like a c and slowly closes them almost together– not touching. He opens them and does it again.
“What are you doing?”
“Here.” Boy points at boat-bottom. “Sit there.”
Girl slides off the seat and pushes the oars to the side where they rest against her girl-leg.
Boy gets up, and the boat sways. He moves around, behind her and pushes the oars down toward the end of the boat and sits, one leg on either side of her. “Like this.” Boy puts his pointer and thumb up to her right eye. “Now, close your left eye.”
Boy-fingers slowly close together but never touch. So slowly that the girl almost doesn’t see them move. And between boy-fingers she sees the moon, never expanding beyond the distance between his pointer and thumb even as he closes them together. The moon– so big before– being pushed together, reduced in diameter by nothing but boy-fingers, before her very eyes– eye.
Her left eye flits open then shuts again. And she wonders what would happen if he pinched his boy-fingers all the way and squeezed really tightly. If he let his pointer and thumb turn white from pinching and never let his hand fall from her eye, would girl-eye be forever gone and the moon with it?
Boy-voice behind her, “See?”
Girl-eyes refocus toward the little lit-up kitchen. Girl tries it there—the illusion is gone, and when girl-fingers are felt against one another, so is the kitchen. Girl releases them again— man back at his table, woman now wiping the counters.
Girl-foot shifts knocking oars against the boat-bottom. “I’m
tired.” Girl-phone lights on the bench seat.
Boy-hand drops from her eye to her waist.
Girl-hair presses against his chest. Surrounding this new silhouette, dark and quiet. Past its surroundings, the little lit up kitchen where woman sits down across from her husband— graying hair released from its bun and falling against the chair back. Girl asks, “No bugs tonight? I don’t hear the crickets.”
“Not tonight. Still a little cold.”
Painted fingernails clench and dig. “I like the crickets. I like their song.” “I
don’t. Bugs bite.”
“I know that better than you.”
Boy takes his phone out of his pocket. Screen lights. “What was that song?” “Is there anyone else on the lake?”
“I don’t know.”
“If there is, they can hear me.” “Probably.”
“If I told you the name of the song and they heard, I wonder if they would listen to it.” Boy thumb turns his phone off. “I was gonna play it for you.”
“But I wonder if they would listen on their own.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I like it.” Boy
hand on girl-waist.
“And I want to know if they would try to like it, too.” “Just tell
me what it’s called.”
Girl-hum.
A fish splashes in the dark. In the little, lit-up kitchen, man drums his fingers against the table; woman looks out toward the water. Can she hear the fish-splash and the girl- and boy- hushed voices?
Boy-voice, “Are you scared?”
“Gives me shivers.” Girl-phone lights. “Can I have that?”
Boy-hand passes the phone from the bench seat to girl. Screen lights. Boy
voice, “Do you have to get back?”
“‘It Is What It Is.’”
“What?”
“That’s the name of the song. From Trip Tape II by Milky Chance.”
Boy-hand moves to turn on his phone, but girl takes it from his hand and slides it to the bench seat in front of her.
Boy-voice, “I was gonna play it for you.”
“It already drove me crazy.” Girl-phone lights. Again, painted toes shift knocking oars against the boat-bottom.
Boy-voice, “Do you want me to move those?”
“I’ll do it.” Girl gets up, and boy-hand slides from her waist. Her feet press against the boat bottom. Again, she shifts her weight from one leg to the other and one leg to the other. This time, she grips the boat-side. When it steadies, she steps up on the boat seat, crouches, picks up the oars, and hands them to boy-hands.
Girl-legs remain squatting on the bench seat. “We’re in the middle now?” “We were a minute ago.”
“You think we’ve floated too close to the shore?”
“Not yet.” Boy-hand grips oars. “Where do you want me to take you?”
Girl-phone lights. “Nowhere.” Girl-voice pauses. “I can row, too, you know.” Boy muscles tense, “Could you?”
“I’ll show you.” Boy
grips oars.
Painted toes curl against the bench seat. Girl faces out, toward the water. Girl-voice, “I’m tired of trying to make it be what it’s not. Now, I just let it go.” Girl-legs straighten and step again, out, toward the water.
He sees it through the dark. He hears it like a fish splashing in the water.
But her phone lights up. He sets the oars against his leg and picks her phone up. Message from another boy-label: heart-eye emoji, “come over.”
He waits for her to come back up. Looks at the shore—sees the kitchen light of a shadowed house flick off.
Silence– no crickets. He thinks he hears tinny, silent music. He
turns up the volume on girl-phone.
Is what it is, what it is, what it is. He
turns the volume down, fast. She’s
done it to herself.
And then, a gasp for air. Boy-fingers tighten against the paddle. Boy-instinct wants to lift it and swing down toward fish-splashes, but boy-voice instead, “Can you swim?”
Girl-gasps, “Yes.” And girl-hand treading sees boy-paddle dip back into the water and push. Girl instinct knows she shouldn’t have admitted to being able to keep her girl-body up above the seaweed all alone. Girl wonders if woman in kitchen window was ever asked if she could pull her hands into rubber gloves and dip them into sudsy water.
Boy-muscles tense and row and tense and row and tense to the shore where the kitchen window used to be lit.
