—IF WE BOTH WERE BORN, IN ANOTHER PLACE AND TIME, THIS MOMENT MIGHT BE ENDING WITH A KISS

 

 

The Vocabulary of Water

 

At the mouth of the cove, bunkered by sly aspens, she strips without saying a word—blouse, shorts, shoes, bra—everything peeled away like petals lifted off by a laconic wind, and for a moment, I have no breath or excuse not to do the same, though she’s 32 and I’m 15, while the trees, squirrels and pinecones all spy on us with a watch-maker’s intensity, so I say something for once, I say, “Watch this,” and grab a flat stone, flinging it side-arm, skipping it 4-5-6-8-10-12 times, and after the rock sinks like a lump of dumb hope, she seems younger and almost shy, biting a lower lip, saying, “You’re really good,” and I believe her, as I head into the water and wine, a body made of goose flesh already plucked, a boy prepared to be a man, or else something completely unknown.