Sinking Again

it was her. she was here. she was beautiful, lovely, and walking toward his table. why had he asked her here? why… again?

she sat. they both said hello. the meeting wasn’t awkward, it was–it seemed–cautious; like a child trying to sneak behind its parents backs and get away with something. at the same time, everything came naturally: the verbal language, the body language, the almost psychic language between them.

the question kept swimming through his mind, like a fish looking for food, a fish that would probably starve to death, or come close to it. the question: why? …why did i start it again? he could wonder as much as he wanted but he wouldn’t find the answer. the answer was in plain sight, he’d just looked it over as you would a stack of papers on your desk: he loved her, but he would never admit it. not to himself, not to anyone else, and especially not to her.

there was no way he would go back there, even though he’d already gotten out the map and begun reading the directions. the thing about him is that he kept going one place, then he’d retrace his steps and find himself right back where he’d started. then he’d set off someplace else and somehow end up back at the beginning. how he did it he’d never figure out. but he did it nonetheless. and it really did suck to not ever get anywhere. no matter how far you went you never really did go anywhere. it really was just annoying.

the date was going well actually, at least it was until they’d both finished their food and the only thing that was left was each other. his arm was resting on the table. so was hers. they were but inches away from each other. almost instinctively he moved his, slowly and naturally his hand touched hers, softly. then their fingers interlocked.

(he was stepping into a lake)

he leaned forward.

(a very deep lake)

they gazed into each others eyes.

(he couldn’t swim, and he knew it)

once again, slowly and naturally, they both moved. they both drifted closely to one another and then–

(he was drowning)

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