I lead him down a dirt path, duck under a wire fence, and convince him to cross some tracks to a gravel beach along the Hudson. He’s worried the patrol cop will catch us, but I don’t think they’ll care. We sit and eat. Peanut butter sandwiches, clementines, bananas, granola bars. I throw my banana peel and it gets caught in a branch. It hangs there like lingerie, his 7th grade winning spelling bee word. Evidence of something, maybe just that we were there. We talk about our favorite places we’ve swam all over the world: rivers, waterfalls, secret swimming holes. I’d dive in now if he’d let me.

We’re staying with my parents, days that have turned to weeks, to months even, and we—like so many others—are stuck searching for newness in days that resemble each other so closely I start to make lists of what I’ve done to remind myself they are different. Ate granola and yogurt—no blueberries today, we are out.

We have  moments; successfully knocking a stubborn branch down together or landing a good frisbee pass, where we move towards each other clumsily and remind ourselves what it's like to kiss. More often intimacy depends on my nightly test; his back to me, I half-lay an arm on him, seeing if he’ll pull it closer. If he does, I cocoon around him, painfully aware of  the thin wall between our room and my parents’.

Inspired by the gravel beach, he calls the town supervisor and asks where we’re allowed to swim. The supervisor directs us to a nearby pond with a thick layer of green algae and two swans at the far end. I take my time getting out of the car, annoyed we’re once again on his schedule when I had more work that needed doing. But jealousy seeps in when he’s in the water before me and I charge in, briefly catching the way he looks at me in my bathing suit. I last longer in the bitterly cold water than he does, and feel like I’ve won something.

Later, as we picnic in the car we watch a man, with a shirt that says Stomp my flag, I’ll stomp your ass, enter the water on a kayak. Our laugh releases tension; our current reconnects. We drive to get iced coffee, go for a walk but turn back because my feet are blistering and he wants to hike tomorrow. Back in the car, we decide we’re still hungry and eat cheese and crackers and after enough shy glances we look at each other and kiss, and despite the sharp taste of cheese it feels like the beginning again. Later, he says we just need a boat, then we could paddle to the middle of the lake and have sex there. We don’t have access to a boat, so I wonder what he even wants.

The days get longer and eventually, looking out over a stream, peeling clementines, he asks about “our plan” and I tell him what I know: that his plan is to leave. He books his flight that night, and I regret having given him permission even though I can’t help but be pleased that he needed it.

His last day, we find a sandy beach with clear water and picnic tables and families barbecuing and, after swimming, glad to have finally found a place, I sit down next to him and try to move close and he says, yeah it’s cold, and I say, I’m not cold I’m just trying to be affectionate, and he says, oh that’s nice. And I think he really means it. 

Tomorrow, he’ll fly away.

__________

Amelie Lyons is a NYC born & raised writer. She has experimented with various genres, including poetry, short story, auto fiction, and personal essay. She is excited to release this story and moment in time and work on what’s next.