by Steven Snell
Her breath has deepened. She sounds asleep. I close my eyes and open them and look for the river again. Be at peace with it. Paddle with the current. Be at peace with the current. Enjoy the current, enjoy this pace. Yes, be at peace.
I speak, as if to myself, “There’s too much complexity in the world. We get caught up in it. I don’t want to get caught up anymore. … I’m going to let go.”
Peace.
The curtain bellows again. Music coming from the other room. The large bed under us, comfortable under us.
She sits up and crosses her legs. She gently shakes her head as if to wake herself. She tucks her volcanic ash black bangs behind her ear. She looks at me.
I nod to her and smile, “Yes, you’re right. It’s getting late. I best get going. Working tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she replies.
I shift and put my feet down on the area rug. I look outside into the darkening night and picture my apartment building. I picture us there. We’ve made it safe there.
I stand up and pull my jeans on and my sweater on. I smile to her again. I start to walk out of her bedroom.
She says, “Shawn …”
I turn my head sideways to her. I think to turn around. I think I’ll kiss her goodbye. For the first time kiss her goodbye. I’ll kiss her. Really kiss her. Kiss her on her mouth and say I like that and say I like kissing you and kiss her again. I’ll say I’ll see you soon. Say I look forward to seeing you again soon. Kiss her again and say I can’t wait to see you again.
I move towards her. She looks down into her lap, her fingers sliding through her volcanic ash black hair. “… Shawn, we’re not going to do this anymore.”
Epilogue.
At the airport. Through Security. “Cabin crew prepare for take-off.”
I miss you.
I’m thinking of you.
Wheels down.
The west coast.
I miss you.
Taxi to a hotel. I miss you. You.
I miss you I miss you.
I go to sleep, a restless sleep. I miss you.
I stare at the mirror, my hips against the sink. Feel my face. Clean shaven. I move my hand through my hair. Shift about my bed head. Turn on the cold water. Cup my hands under the faucet. Splash my face. Splash my face. I turn to the towel rack, dry my face. Place the towel back. I look back at the mirror and stare at myself and miss you. I walk back to the bed. Underwear. Jeans. White shirt. Brown belt. Green socks. On. Walk to the bar fridge. Open it. Take out a small can of cranberry juice. Your favourite juice is cranberry. I turn over the glass beside the coffee maker, fill it, half way. Drink it. Glass down. Fridge closed. I cross the hotel room to the door. Put my sneakers on. Take my scarf from a hook on the back of the door. Wrap it loosely around my neck. Wrap it loosely around my neck. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair. On.
I miss you.
I’ll always miss you.
The door closes behind me and down the hallway and down the elevator and through the lobby and outside the late autumn air swaying around my body. A bicyclist passes by, a bird on a fence, a siren a few streets away. I miss you. Down a street. Left on a street. A coffee shop. Idle chatter leaking out. Smells Like Sundays. I’ve been there with you.
I imagine us walking, laughing, drinking coffees, us walking laughing drinking coffees.
More blocks pass under me.
A billboard reads, Blood Donors Needed.
More blocks.
A cool breeze.
I pocket my hands and shrug my shoulders, my scarf brushes my earlobes.
I walk and walk. I know where I’m walking to. I miss you.
The city calms away as cement turns to grass turns to pebbles. A seagull hops a few feet away. I stop and stare out to the great body of water. The ocean. You you you.
A sail boat anchored rises up and down with the gentle surges of the ocean coming in.
A kayaker dips her paddle. Dips her paddle.
My heart in my chest. I unwrap my scarf. Unwrap my scarf and drop it on the beach. My sweater. My white shirt. My jeans. My sneakers and green socks and move to the water, it lapping up over my feet and shocking my body into lucidity. Fuck it’s cold. Fuck I miss you.
I move to my shins and lose my breath. Then my thighs then my underwear wet. You. Testicles ascend into my abdomen. Trying to breathe. A deep breath. Quick breath. A long breath. Breathing. Breathe, Shawn.
I miss you I miss you.
I lean forward and push off the pebbles and sand and sink to my chest dive under the surface water filling my ears my head a frozen cramp.
I kick harder. Harder.
I surface and roll and look to the morning sky. So blue. So perfectly blue.
I.
You you.
I kick again a flutter-kick, a long breath in.
I let it out.
You.
You.
When I run out of breath.
Gabriella.
When I run out of breath, Gabriella – my everything, my … my … my shore. When I empty of air I’ll know to stop, to let go. You’ll stop me, hold me, resuscitate me. You.
You.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
###
The author.
Steven Snell lives in Calgary, Canada with his wife and daughter. He’s a city planner by trade and practice. His nonfiction work is on cities. He is currently working on the follow-up to Clear Running Water. Connect with Steven on Twitter, @stevenpsnell or Facebook, stevenpsnell.
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 12