J.
and T.
1. J. and T. take off their shoes by the fountain. They’re
getting set to enter the pool. It’s 11:00 p.m., Florida summer,
and J. is speculating about why T. became upset when he argued that no
two people could ever truly understand one another. T. isn’t even
there with him; she’s remembering Spain, her year spent there, why
she’d like to return but
2. knows she never will. The specter of Spain still stalks
her. She’s looking for dead frogs floating in the pool—since
she’s never experienced lust, she feels nothing in such moments.
In her own mind she’s still a child growing dim at her bedside—turning
to ether with each word she prays. J. can see four frogs near the
pool. There’s also one
3. inside it, which he’ll pick out before T. will get in. This is
the dance they do. Too thin to dance, T. nevertheless wants to
dance, exquisite, to the music of Babylon. Too precise to be
human, she is nevertheless human. But not to J. “If to
breathe is to live, then to live is to work.” She won’t
agree. Why are they out in this thick, stale, insect-
4. infested night air? T. walks by herself through the water,
moving her arms in rhythm. J. wants to tell her that her mouth
reminds him of an angel. His mouth is becoming weary. He
knows he left his best memories inside his grandfather’s pickup
truck. Something in his soul is clotting. T.’s trying to
cut through the water, become the water,
5. and she’s consciously trying to ignore J., though she really
believes she loves him. “In the hindsight of a lover, yours is
always an untouchable beauty.” In J.’s mind, T. is a gypsy
playing a guitar. J. is that guitar. She’s playing him with
quick, spidery fingers. She plays hard and fast—he feels like a
knife in a soldier’s hand. The soldier is cutting
6. downward into a wet blanket. Frogs and crickets permeate the
hot, wet blanket of night air. It’s been a long time since it
rained. There’s only five days left until the start of hurricane
season. When it rains T. wants to remember something, but can
only remember having known it once. J. is doing handstands near
the deep end, looking for
7. something on the bottom of the pool. T. stares at a frog in
the shrubs. She knows that no happiness is artificial, and that
every footprint is unique. She doesn’t hear him when he asks her,
“Remember when you were pure desperation?” He wants to kiss her
but her face is without substance. “It was you and me fighting
death.” He has hands to touch but
8. cannot touch. The artificial light of the pool is
unkind. “I haven’t loved you for a hundred years.” No
stars are visible. The air is thicker than their love. But,
as T. realizes, perhaps it’s more bearable. J. is starting to
feel angry, though he’s nowhere near articulating to himself why.
For T. the pool is full of little girls. Little girls in an
9. afternoon light—she forgets that it’s nighttime. “Childhood is
a beautiful thing—why do they cut it so short?” They’re
splashing, jumping in, dunking one another. Early afternoon, and
she’s the mother of one of these girls. She wants to speak as a
child, but doesn’t believe it will get her into heaven. J. tries
to pull her back: “Why won’t you
10. admit that words signify?” As if he or anyone else knew the
words. Surveying them, T. can’t decide which girl is hers.
“Do you really think you could see God’s face in the
water?” Facing away from one another, each wants to choose
the harder path. J. is growing impatient. He wants to reach
for her, but he’s tired of reaching, tired of Florida,
11. of air that’s thick, tired of speculating, of staying quiet, of
frogs, fountains, and footprints. T. is simply praying: “Please
God, let me compensate less every day. Let me touch when I touch,
kiss when I kiss, know with symmetry your untouched hands and
untouchable toes.” It will all be over soon.
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