100 Proof

It was missed communion, a lost opportunity to shape a shared meal. She felt guilty, slicing the loaf of bread alone, asking for grace only for herself, sipping wine meant to be shared.

And yet, the quiet was exactly what she needed.

The two of them might as well have been underwater, far from the surface. He knew she spoke, but could not hear the words.

I don’t understand, she said, or, at least, he thought she said. He had never been very good at reading lips.

She lifted a hand to her cheek. He tried to ignore any lack of oxygen. He wanted to reach out to touch her, but he was afraid to weaken her further, leave her even more vulnerable than she already was.

For an hour, it was all distraction: bright lights, unusual sounds, hands yanking from all direction. Then calm returned briefly, a placid moment, an opportunity to breathe before it all began again.

She tried closing her eyes, but her eyelids were no proper guard against the light. She tried plugging her ears, but the sounds had infiltrated her brain and she could hear them anyway. It was then that she gave herself over to all of it, unwilling to expend any more energy fighting the inevitable.

She held it all like an artichoke, both her hands wrapped around it loosely enough to protect her skin but tightly enough not to let it go. There was something delicious in there, if only she could determine the best way to peel back the leaves, uncover the heart at the center.

It was not the usual way nights went in this town. It was so much more glittery, slippery as a fish, sparkling like a spray of water in sunlight.

He spun her beside a fountain, and her heel caught between the cobblestones. She laughed the whole time, laughing, laughing, like it was the funniest moment of her whole life.

The only regret he had was leaving his camera at home. He feared by morning he would have already forgotten how happy she was in those moments. He wished he could have captured her smile, kept it always.

None of the usual measures worked, that time, when seeking direction. The map, smeared. The compass, spinning perpetually.

There was a right way to go, a way forward over undisturbed ground, but the rocks in the way obscured a view of that right path and, no matter what, she didn’t want to retrace steps already taken.

She circled, circled, pondering the lack of clear routes. Night was falling, and remaining out in the open was no longer an option.

They had spent years in the cold together, ice surrounding them for miles, the length of day-night-day exaggerated by the planet’s tilt.

Once, her fingers nearly froze when she removed a glove to adjust an instrument. Once, he nearly slipped into a crevasse.

It was no wonder, finally, when they huddled together, door battened against the howling Arctic wind. They had been far too cold for far too long.