Artificial blue glimmers pale around me. Her limbs glide assuredly through the water. I want to do that. I don’t know how. I grab her calf, thick and solid. I am dragged, washed with joy. Underneath, light wavers jellylike. Sounds are muffled. Fleshy thighs, bare bellies. Undulating, surreal slow motion. Water cradles me, then violently floods my mouth, bleachy lukewarm betrayal. Fear drowns joy. Wrenched upward, I am coughing, chemical-hot wetness burning my nose. Her skin is warm as I gag and sink into her. Afterward, summer concrete burns trustworthy against my shivering skin, dry Goldfish between my tiny teeth.
L.V. Leonhard is a writer who lives in Baltimore, Maryland.