Moon in Murky Water
A world too large for one life. A night of local happiness.
He had known her before he knew her.
The third time they met, she was a week away from leaving. They'd already wandered down the same street twice, trying to settle on dinner, when she stopped in front of Easy Foods Company.
“A part of me wants to get plastered.”
She was starving, which meant—she did the calculation—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.
Three minutes later, in the back alley, she tossed her head back four times.
Somehow, they ended up talking about sleep.
He told her he’d been getting “old-man sleep.” Waking too early. But if he could fall asleep early enough, he’d probably be okay.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
She countered that he could still sleep poorly. Still wake up unsettled. Stress could do it. Sadness could do it. In college, she’d wake up crying. She said blackout curtains could help.
They were waiting for their curry udon when she turned to him, serious.
“Are you deliriously happy?”
He laughed. No, not quite delirious. And not quite happy about life. But at the thought of udon? Yes.
She nodded. “Local happiness.”
She informed him that she was quaking with excitement for hotpot on Sunday. She was “falling for the future,” as she put it.
At some point, she climbed a tree.
At some point, they walked through sprinklers.
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. Thin-film interference, she added.
The conversation wandered elsewhere.
But the moon returned.
She told him of sinusoids.
The night before, she’d been overcome. Something about wanting to be so much more. She couldn’t quite find the words for it then.
And then there was the moon.
“It felt exactly like a moon in murky water.”
The next morning, she woke up—anticipating. There was so much she could become. So much she could try. Skydiving. Woodworking. Paris for a weekend.
The world was too large.
The world was so large.
When she was eight, she’d been certain she would never have children. Why bother 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’d hummed it into every silence on their walk.
She bopped in her seat.
That’s so her, he thought.