100 Proof

At one time, they moved through life like pelicans, cruising just at the edges of waves, dipping and rising in tandem, avoiding the splash. But then one large wave appeared at the horizon, and neither anticipated it, looked to the right to see it coming as they flew south along the edge of their pacific life. As it turns out, wet wings weigh down the hollow skeleton.

At the lake, the daughter led on her pink bike, her father followed on his soberer, larger edition.

“Pick it up, now, girl,” he said as his daughter wound around walkers and joggers.

Up ahead, the path curved right along the water, and though his daughter was already pedaling faster than before, he decided not to tell her to speed up any further. It would not be long now before she would pedal away from him with the finality of one who had found her direction.

He told her once the root of Valentine was derived from valens, or worthy. He told her about Church men of valor, about saints long buried, about a martyr in a woodcut.

She listened, but wondered whether he was worthy of the attention. He had yet to show any sign, after all, of interest in what she carried in her heart, where she had martyred herself, or what she hoped to keep buried. She decided, for the time being, to wait for signs of better valor.

They rehearsed in a spare studio, her feet bare against the hardwood, his head tilted toward the neck of his guitar. He never made eye contact when they played, but they had learned to find each other in the rhythm, dipping in and out of each other’s notes like birds catching currents of wind.

At a break, he caught her hand as she passed by, but still couldn’t meet her gaze. When they returned to playing, her voice cracked at the lyrics “love” and “want.” Later, the songs beat their wings against the windowpanes, desperate to be released.

One foot on the speckled frozen surface, another on the shore, she skittered a stone toward the center of the lake, sending it like a prayer toward the middle. She felt the ice groan through the sole of her boot, imagined its slow heaving out there past where she could see. It had been an entire winter of this wondering if the lake would ever thaw again, whether what lay beneath her would finally give way.

She locked the door and closed all the blinds now, in the manner that she used to carry an umbrella or keep an emergency kit in the car. Out there, the world swirled dark and confusing, and she had stopped yearning to see out at any of it. Inside, when she didn’t have to leave for any reason, she lined up her books like sentries, considered the pictures on the walls all eyes on the situation.

“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have shown up,” he said. “I like talking to you.”

She stammered around for a bit.

“Tell me what you want to say,” he said. “You should be honest.”

I may have found a kindred spirit, she thought. I adore how when we talk I discover unexpected combinations of words, I want to kiss you for days, every time you text message me I smile even if it doesn’t say anything, really.

“I like you a lot,” she said. “I want to see where this goes.”