opposite her.
Walk with me? he asks.
Okay, she nods.
Around the building and down the brick steps. He unlocks his bike and they walk away together through their city, the ticking of his bike keeping time.
Pausing at a corner as the commuter train pulls to a stop in front of them. When he looks at her she feels a crash behind her rib cage.
How did you end up in the army? she asks.
She doesnât know why, but out it comes weighted with anger and grief. It sounds like an accusation, but to it is a confession: of all the things she thought about soldiers before she met himâthat they are emotionally damaged uber-jocks, not people who listen to early U2 records and eat vegetarian Chinese food and talk about pacifist science fiction; and of the fact that she loves him for itâfor being unexpected, for making her think differently, for setting her thoughts on the future, the quaint narrative she nurtures of the two of them in the world together; and that she cannot fathom why, after all he went through to arrive here, in this city, at the same time and place as Isabel, he would go far away to kill people, or worse, to blow away altogether this time.
He looks up the sidewalk, measuring some distance up the street.
Stepping off the curb, he lifts his bike and she watches their feet descend, her black leather slip-on next to his worn blue Converse.
Theyâve walked for nearly a block when he stops short and looks at her. They are in the middle of the sidewalk, face to face, between a tobacco shop and a trash can. Everything theyâve never said flows into the narrow space between them. Isabel feels the passing of time acutely, like a flood coming and only so much time to gather up the most important things.
She looks at him, thinking how tall he is, how her nose would fit neatly into his clavicle if she walked right into him. A few people walk around them, pass. If she were other people, she would silently tell them to fucking move, yous . But she doesnât care. The streetlights have changed, leaving them alone on this stretch of city block. Pigeons scuttle around the trash can, then begin to wander nearer their unmoving feet.
I didnât feel like I had many options, he says finally. I wanted experience and I wanted to get out of my hometown for a while.
Thatâs an answer. Is it true?
Yeah. Yes. All true.
But that doesnât really tell me, she says.
Itâs a long story, he says.
I want the long story.
He just looks at her intensely and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her. Then he nods and they walk.
The food vendors across the street are packing up their carts, washing down their counters and tables, cooling off in the breeze, sipping sodas or having a smoke.
Their arms touch and her skin vibrates. He pulls away slightly. Maybe he doesnât want to be so close to her, she thinks. Or maybe he does not want her to know how much he wants to touch her.
So she moves closer to him, again, letting her bare arm brush against his. He doesnât move away this time.
Thaw
When Isabel was small, her father worked on the Alaskan North Slope for what seemed like months at a time. It was actually two weeks on, two weeks off, but time seemed to go on longer then.
In the winter, the Slope was a dark, starry place, with a colony of busy fathers working in the snow and ice. In the summer, the light never ended, and they measured one hour to the next by the beeps on their digital watches, eating periodically from vending machines. Isabel knew about the vending machines because when her father came home he always brought a candy bar for Agnes and Isabel to share.
The girls couldnât sleep summer nights, because of the light slipping in from outside. And on nights when their father was coming home, they waited up for him and the candy bar. She remembers running into his arms; the cold petroleum smell of his work clothes.
But when they asked questions about where he had been and
Walk with me? he asks.
Okay, she nods.
Around the building and down the brick steps. He unlocks his bike and they walk away together through their city, the ticking of his bike keeping time.
Pausing at a corner as the commuter train pulls to a stop in front of them. When he looks at her she feels a crash behind her rib cage.
How did you end up in the army? she asks.
She doesnât know why, but out it comes weighted with anger and grief. It sounds like an accusation, but to it is a confession: of all the things she thought about soldiers before she met himâthat they are emotionally damaged uber-jocks, not people who listen to early U2 records and eat vegetarian Chinese food and talk about pacifist science fiction; and of the fact that she loves him for itâfor being unexpected, for making her think differently, for setting her thoughts on the future, the quaint narrative she nurtures of the two of them in the world together; and that she cannot fathom why, after all he went through to arrive here, in this city, at the same time and place as Isabel, he would go far away to kill people, or worse, to blow away altogether this time.
He looks up the sidewalk, measuring some distance up the street.
Stepping off the curb, he lifts his bike and she watches their feet descend, her black leather slip-on next to his worn blue Converse.
Theyâve walked for nearly a block when he stops short and looks at her. They are in the middle of the sidewalk, face to face, between a tobacco shop and a trash can. Everything theyâve never said flows into the narrow space between them. Isabel feels the passing of time acutely, like a flood coming and only so much time to gather up the most important things.
She looks at him, thinking how tall he is, how her nose would fit neatly into his clavicle if she walked right into him. A few people walk around them, pass. If she were other people, she would silently tell them to fucking move, yous . But she doesnât care. The streetlights have changed, leaving them alone on this stretch of city block. Pigeons scuttle around the trash can, then begin to wander nearer their unmoving feet.
I didnât feel like I had many options, he says finally. I wanted experience and I wanted to get out of my hometown for a while.
Thatâs an answer. Is it true?
Yeah. Yes. All true.
But that doesnât really tell me, she says.
Itâs a long story, he says.
I want the long story.
He just looks at her intensely and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her. Then he nods and they walk.
The food vendors across the street are packing up their carts, washing down their counters and tables, cooling off in the breeze, sipping sodas or having a smoke.
Their arms touch and her skin vibrates. He pulls away slightly. Maybe he doesnât want to be so close to her, she thinks. Or maybe he does not want her to know how much he wants to touch her.
So she moves closer to him, again, letting her bare arm brush against his. He doesnât move away this time.
Thaw
When Isabel was small, her father worked on the Alaskan North Slope for what seemed like months at a time. It was actually two weeks on, two weeks off, but time seemed to go on longer then.
In the winter, the Slope was a dark, starry place, with a colony of busy fathers working in the snow and ice. In the summer, the light never ended, and they measured one hour to the next by the beeps on their digital watches, eating periodically from vending machines. Isabel knew about the vending machines because when her father came home he always brought a candy bar for Agnes and Isabel to share.
The girls couldnât sleep summer nights, because of the light slipping in from outside. And on nights when their father was coming home, they waited up for him and the candy bar. She remembers running into his arms; the cold petroleum smell of his work clothes.
But when they asked questions about where he had been and
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