Torn Sheets

We lived beside a river then that was narrow to the other side, set through peeling cedar trees. And we would walk in the summer, up to the municipal dam at the lake, that started the rapids, to drop our inner tubes into the dark water, where it was easy after the falls.

Then we’d kick out to the current and drop down the river line, quick through the dolomite veins, where the river cut there, to leave white rock bowls and white rock gullies.

And we’d stay with it, past our houses and down to the sand bar, to stand up in the middle of the water, to see the bottom of the short concrete bridge and all the mud swallow nests, where the road crossed, just past the edge of town. 

There are a few quick ways to ruin it, that I know of, but they’re easy enough to skirt, and at that moment all I had to do was cut the shallots, and the truffles, and knife butter into the pan. When it melted, the butter started to bubble, and you added the stripped sage, and everything set down to draw it in. I cut wild mushrooms, that you found at the market, and you shifted your hips and leaned into the counter to face me. Then I poured in the rice and you poured in the stock. I stirred, and I still stirred, and then we dipped our spoons to taste it, as it worked in. I kept pushing you into the corner, away from your roommate, to kiss you. And we talked low in the kitchen when we got ready.

So I said to him, ”You’re gonna be a bounty hunter? Who’s gonna be afraid of your ass?”

On our fourth date we bought a trailer park outside of town, called Rip Van Winkle’s Retreat. In the morning we started to straighten up the tuck shop. We put new machines in the laundromat, next, and you were worried about the kids who ran around the abandoned outbuildings. There were broken bottles in the tall grasses and I would walk the big line trimmer out there, every few days, to keep it clear and to knock down the weeds. It was hot then in July but you made biscuits with breakfast. I stopped wearing shirts completely, and, like this, the summer rolled out. 

I remember that you asked me if we were taking things too quickly but it was hard for me to tell. I still had the porch to fix and in the afternoon you talked to your mother on the phone while you counted out clear glass jars. And then I watched you set them in rows, in front of fruit cartons, while you stood at the kitchen counter.

This city will wash away, long after you and I are gone. And there will be books in the water, then, and stone work from 1905 floating out into the Atlantic, with squirrel bones, and coffee cups from two hundred diners. Then they’ll find pint glasses also, with broken water towers sitting in the silt, lost out into the bay, and bicycles, and interesting shoes, all under the cold dark water.

And there will be lots of questions, in a new language, about what must’ve happened here and about all of these streets and doorways. Then they will try to figure out your story too. They will talk about what your days were like. And they will try to imagine, even, how tonight you got undressed, pulled back the covers, and finally crawled into bed.