Noise travels on a lake. It’s the stillness, and it was still that night. I watched her, as I watched them all; an outsider to their togetherness, alone in the shadows. the tip of my cigarette marking my presence for any who cared to look. No one looked. My solitude was an unheard accompaniment to their music. Their high pitched squeals rang like crystal, true and clear. Their frivolity hung languid in the summer air.
She stood out. She laughed harder, danced faster, her cocktail glass an extension of her arm. I allowed myself to imagine her with white limbs splayed wide.
She was a loose woman. The voice in my head was my mother’s. Starched and bitter.
We met at the water’s edge. Her nature was evident. She flirted, coquettish. Up close she wasn’t quite as beautiful as I had thought. Her touch was light, insubstantial, moth like. Her fingers fluttered against my throat; the gentle shape of an eyelash against my face.
When I kissed her, she cut me with her laughter.
She opened the darkness inside me. The bell like tones of her voice, ripped out my jugular and the humid air made way for a hot spill of my blood. Or perhaps it was her blood.
Now I am old and since then I have lived a simple life, in this cottage on the edge of the lake. I take it upon myself to clean the shoreline, particularly after a storm. You might think it a penance I suppose. But we both know that secrets rise in shallow lakes.
Image via Pixabay