#89 Kismet

by Megan Doyle

I’ve seen you here before. Last summer. You cast a lazy smile in my direction and disappear beneath another eager wave. Do you recognize me, too? My hair has lightened in the sun. And I don’t wear it in braids anymore.

You sit much closer than I expected. Cold ocean drips from your hair and skin, onto me and the glossy pages of my magazine. I pretend not to mind, my fingers intent on the fraying edges of the blue blanket.

Back at the Sunset House, a sliver of moon illuminates the roof, and orange glows from your second third fourth cigarette. You hand me a long-necked bottle. Clear brown liquid rests three inches below a thick black mark your father had drawn on the glass. The taste makes my eyes water, and you laugh. You taste like it, too. And something else. Cinnamon, I think.

Your fingers search with assurance, sending goose bumps up my freckled arms. The moon is gone now and I can’t see, but I keep my eyes wide.

A chorus of winged bugs tries to drown out your heavy breaths in my ears, the creaks and thuds of these old oak slats. I pretend not to mind, my fingers intent on the fraying edges of the blue blanket.

In the glow of the streetlamp below, the brown in the bottle gleams amber. I watch, hoping that you cast a lazy smile in my direction. But you move quickly, and you’re swallowed up by the dark.