The following story appeared in my first book (which launched four years ago this week, by the way. Holy shit.). I tweaked it for a recent application and thought I’d post here, since it’s seasonal…
—–
Slowly, I am rocking
side
to
side.
I feel the curve of my back against the deck’s wood. My right-hand knuckles scrub gently up and down the zipper on my sweatshirt. I can feel dried salt crusted between my toes. It is a buttery summer night, and this boat and I are gliding on waters off Rhode Island. Seven of us lie on the deck, all looking up, all silent. We’re tired in that beachy way, thirsty and tender from overexposure to air and sun.
Nearest to me, Andrew rolls over. He is English, short and a little doughy. His blond hair is soft and thin, like a baby’s or a duck’s. I feel that if I held my hand above his head, the threads of it would come shooting to attention and follow my fingers, like the static electricity balls at science museums. I am considering these uglinesses, then I notice his serious eyes, and I smile to cover up the jolt I get from that kind of electricity. Andrew is new to this group. He is my friend’s favorite ex. I try to think of the least comely thing to say.
