Moon in Murky Water
A world too large. A night of local happiness.
The third time they met, she was a week from leaving.
They’d already wandered the same street twice, trying to settle on dinner, when she paused outside Easy Foods Company.
“Part of me wants to get plastered.”
She was starving, which meant—she did the math—it would be extremely economical. She wouldn’t drink, though, because he couldn’t. He was driving. Then he admitted that he was curious what she’d be like tipsy.
Two minutes later, in the back alley, she tossed her head back three times.
Somehow, they landed on sleep.
He’d been suffering from “old-man sleep,” waking by 6 a.m. But if he could fall asleep early enough, he’d probably be okay.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
She said he could still sleep poorly. Stress could do it. Sadness could do it. In college, she’d wake crying. Blackout curtains could help.
They were waiting for their curry udon when she turned to him.
“Are you deliriously happy?”
He laughed. No, not quite delirious. Not quite happy about life either. But at the thought of udon? Yes.
She nodded. “Local happiness.”
“Local,” he repeated.
She informed him that she was quaking with excitement for hotpot on Sunday—falling for the future.
At some point, she strolled too close to sprinklers.
At some point, they climbed a tree.
At some point, he skipped a step.
The moon was wearing a rainbow.
“Look.”
He looked.
Diffraction? she wondered. Then she spoke of gasoline in puddles—how she used to marvel at the colors. Once, she dreamed of painting with thin-film interference.
The conversation wandered elsewhere.
But the moon returned.
She told him of her sinusoids.
The night before, she’d been overcome and inarticulate. Something about wanting to be so much more.
Then there was the moon.
“It felt like a moon in murky water.”
The next morning, she woke anticipating. There was so much she could become. So much she could try.
Skydiving.
Woodworking.
Prague for a weekend.
When she was eight, she was certain she would never have children. Why try if it could all end in resentment?
Now she imagined them asking questions.
“What if these pants could turn into a tent?”
We can try that.
Eventually, they reached his car.
He put on the La La Land soundtrack—she had hummed it into every silence.
She bopped in her seat.