Together, you take the sailboat out on the pretense of fishing and then strip down to your long johns. You curl your arthritic toes around chapped wood and dare him jump. It’s how Byron learned to swim, you say. And how Shelley learned to drown, he replies. We’re not young anymore. He eyes the water, distrustful, but for you, death is still a far thing. The air whistles, and then, you’re under, toes scraping sand. You find purchase and break like a wave, sea salting your throat, your beard. He leans toward you through curled hair as if to offer a hand. It’s dangerous, this game.
What he doesn’t know is someone else, long ago, taught you how to swim.
“Don’t you trust me?” you ask, treading, but he hesitates long enough for cold to settle on your bones. You let the answer sink silently in the bream.
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, Blink-Ink, and Westword. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
This story won First Place in the September 24 Monthly Micro Competition.