Nightswimming deserves a quiet night

The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,

Turned around backwards so the windshield shows

It’s only been four weeks. The thought rolled around in her head, echoing, repeating on an endless loop pulling the clammy skin of her forehead into deep valleys. Readjusting her grip on the steering wheel, Ashley willed her eyes to look ahead, staring so hard that the lights began to blur. Again, she strayed, drawn to the profile of her…. My what? Only a little moisture was left in her mouth, she used is sparingly, lightly running her tongue over the smooth surface of her lips. Spencer stirred, feeling her watching, refusing her silent plea. There would be no going back. Ashley received the stolen night, unwrapping the box with equal parts gratitude and uncertainty. Green.

Ashley’s foot pressed hard against the accelerator, forcing them both back into the Cayenne’s plush seats. Her mind wondered again to that night, still feeling the solidness of Spencer’s body against her hands as she pulled her close, closer then ever before. She remembered everything, from the moment their eyes met, to the softness of the skin that she was finally allowed to touch, her hand under Spencer’s chin, the sweetness of tasting her for the first time. Somehow, the intervening weeks had diluted the moment, making it seem like an act that had occurred long ago. Forgotten until one day, a dusty photograph is found, stirring the amnesic participants to recollect the golden hours of youth never to return. All of the reality, the life that continued outside of them, finally sprung, trapping, leaving them both wilting on straight pins. Ashley unconsciously moved her bare thighs against the leather, her skin still stuck.

It was them. The streetlights made it easier to see the small square of glossy happiness in Spencer’s hand. Ashley felt herself getting dizzy looking down at her own smiling face bouncing, clutched loosely in Spencer’s hand. She had her own paper memory folded in the pocket of her jean skirt, the four worn folds outlining an angel. Every night she removed it reverently, placing it on her nightstand, desperately wanting Spencer’s face to be the last thing she saw before closing her eyes. Even now, she was afraid of the night. Sometimes she would wake, holding in her scream, not wanting the darkness to know she was alone. Every night, the talisman protected her as she stared into the ocean letting the peaceful sound of breaking waves wash over, gently lulling her to sleep.