there smoking. When the first joint ended he rolled up another, and another after that. For a long while they hardly said a word, then they started talking,
softly, as if I wasn’t there, about where they’d been, where they planned to go. I had the last of a joint to myself by then and it was making me strange, and while they talked I had
the feeling of having known all the place-names they were murmuring, even places I’d never heard of, and I missed them, like I was homesick for everywhere. I had a picture in my mind then of
Luke’s room, of this pair of baby-shoes he had nailed over his bed with Go Faster! written under them, and the fossil he kept on his bedside table, a big stone sea-shell he found high
up on the mountain.
I must have fallen into a dream soon after because the next thing I remember is realising that the tall one was asleep and the boy was sat up, turned to me, quiet as death. I was cold, and the
wind was getting stronger, shaking the high privet hedge round about us. The wind was carrying the silt-smell off the lake. I remembered the dead perch and thought about the waves slapping on the
shore now, stirring it all up, all the rotted things that were settled there. The waves are like mouths, I thought, eating up everything in the end, eating up the land. I remembered again about
Luke and the tiny shoes over his bed, and the fossil. I knew it was all connected, but didn’t know how, except that everything was silt, or if it wasn’t it would be, and everywhere was
water once, and would be again.
I touched the tall one’s face and it was hot and smooth and dry. His eyes flicked open.
Let me in, I said.
He was nude under the covering, and really there wasn’t room for us both, but I kept my hands from touching him. My father’s gone and my mother’s dead, I told him, and he
nodded, like he’d always known.
We lay still for a while, pressed together but flat on our backs. The wind had cleared the sky again and all the starfields were bright and deep. He pointed up to one of the clusters. See there?
he said. The Great Bear.
I looked along the line of his arm and finger. I don’t see it, I said. Nothing looks like a bear.
There, he said, tracing a shape. There’s the tail, high up, and his head down low. See it now? It points that way in summer, like he’s sniffing his way down.
I laughed. None of it looks like anything, I said, and remembered something Luke told me once when he was very drunk, before we’d ever done anything together. He’d told me that when
he was a boy he used to sneak into the garden at night and pray to the brightest stars, imagining they were spaceships and their captains could read his thoughts. What did you ask for? I’d
wanted to know, but then we both just fell about laughing and he never talked about it again. Now, I pictured all the clutter in his room, fossils, driftwood and bones, all the random things he
found meanings in, and I pictured the rabbit’s foot, as if I’d kept it, hung on a wire in the sun.
The stranger turned to face me and rested a burning hand on my leg. I forced the tight band of my work skirt over my hips and when it reached his fingers he helped me push it right off. He
waited, watching my face, then touched me through my pants, making me gasp. I lifted myself and he rolled them down to my feet. Then he waited again, brushing my forehead with smooth, papery lips.
They were parted, but I couldn’t feel his breath. Behind us, the boy sniffed quietly like a dog, and I thought of Luke again, kneeling in the dark.
Come inside me, I said. And for a while, the boy watching us without a word, the stranger set himself on top of me, heavy and hot, and filled me so full I couldn’t speak, could hardly
breathe, and couldn’t stop crying.
Hush, he whispered as he pushed, hush.
Afterwards, he rolled away and seemed to sleep again. I lay there a long time, close against him, my head to the ground, listening, feeling his liquid
softly, as if I wasn’t there, about where they’d been, where they planned to go. I had the last of a joint to myself by then and it was making me strange, and while they talked I had
the feeling of having known all the place-names they were murmuring, even places I’d never heard of, and I missed them, like I was homesick for everywhere. I had a picture in my mind then of
Luke’s room, of this pair of baby-shoes he had nailed over his bed with Go Faster! written under them, and the fossil he kept on his bedside table, a big stone sea-shell he found high
up on the mountain.
I must have fallen into a dream soon after because the next thing I remember is realising that the tall one was asleep and the boy was sat up, turned to me, quiet as death. I was cold, and the
wind was getting stronger, shaking the high privet hedge round about us. The wind was carrying the silt-smell off the lake. I remembered the dead perch and thought about the waves slapping on the
shore now, stirring it all up, all the rotted things that were settled there. The waves are like mouths, I thought, eating up everything in the end, eating up the land. I remembered again about
Luke and the tiny shoes over his bed, and the fossil. I knew it was all connected, but didn’t know how, except that everything was silt, or if it wasn’t it would be, and everywhere was
water once, and would be again.
I touched the tall one’s face and it was hot and smooth and dry. His eyes flicked open.
Let me in, I said.
He was nude under the covering, and really there wasn’t room for us both, but I kept my hands from touching him. My father’s gone and my mother’s dead, I told him, and he
nodded, like he’d always known.
We lay still for a while, pressed together but flat on our backs. The wind had cleared the sky again and all the starfields were bright and deep. He pointed up to one of the clusters. See there?
he said. The Great Bear.
I looked along the line of his arm and finger. I don’t see it, I said. Nothing looks like a bear.
There, he said, tracing a shape. There’s the tail, high up, and his head down low. See it now? It points that way in summer, like he’s sniffing his way down.
I laughed. None of it looks like anything, I said, and remembered something Luke told me once when he was very drunk, before we’d ever done anything together. He’d told me that when
he was a boy he used to sneak into the garden at night and pray to the brightest stars, imagining they were spaceships and their captains could read his thoughts. What did you ask for? I’d
wanted to know, but then we both just fell about laughing and he never talked about it again. Now, I pictured all the clutter in his room, fossils, driftwood and bones, all the random things he
found meanings in, and I pictured the rabbit’s foot, as if I’d kept it, hung on a wire in the sun.
The stranger turned to face me and rested a burning hand on my leg. I forced the tight band of my work skirt over my hips and when it reached his fingers he helped me push it right off. He
waited, watching my face, then touched me through my pants, making me gasp. I lifted myself and he rolled them down to my feet. Then he waited again, brushing my forehead with smooth, papery lips.
They were parted, but I couldn’t feel his breath. Behind us, the boy sniffed quietly like a dog, and I thought of Luke again, kneeling in the dark.
Come inside me, I said. And for a while, the boy watching us without a word, the stranger set himself on top of me, heavy and hot, and filled me so full I couldn’t speak, could hardly
breathe, and couldn’t stop crying.
Hush, he whispered as he pushed, hush.
Afterwards, he rolled away and seemed to sleep again. I lay there a long time, close against him, my head to the ground, listening, feeling his liquid
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