Hill Like a Sleeping Lady

    Most of the passengers are inside. The sky is clear, but the air over the bay is cool. The city ahead of them looks like a toy village. They are standing astern, and he turns back toward the bridge, its red-orange suspension cables forming an ironic smile. Her voice is lost under the motor's roar and the whistling wind. He looks right over the fantail at the hills they are leaving behind.

    Hey, you know that mountain is supposed to be a sleeping lady?

    His hair is the texture and color of straw. His leather jacket is studded with silver rivets. His nails are painted black.

    What? Are you listening to me? Did you hear anything I just said?

    Her hair is the color and shape of cotton candy. Her heavy black wool skirt dusts the tops of her jackboots.

    I said the worst pain is the first night, then it gets better. That's the way it was with my other ones. And this guy is really good. He's a professional.  He's had it done himself.

    The guy winces. I can't think about it right now. Can we talk about this later?

    Yeah, but later means tonight, you know. It's tonight, or you don't do it. Tomorrow the place won't be open before we leave. Look, I thought we were both going to do this, and I was hoping we'd do it in the same place I had my first one. It's fine if you changed your mind, but if you really want to do it, we should go right now, as soon as we get back to the city. We don't want to run up against the place closing again.

    She gnaws the cuticle of her right ring finger. She has been looking at him watching the mountain the whole time she spoke, and he still doesn't look at her now that she's done talking, and he doesn't say anything.

    OK. I've said this, like, a million times: if you don't want to do it, don't do it. She shifts her weight gingerly from one foot to the other. It's too cold out here. Especially with no… you know.

    He watches her touch her knees together. Her face is pained. He nods and turns away as she leaves. He stays outside a bit longer, staring at the mountain. He squints at it. Then he turns and goes after her.

    She is lying on a bench, her feet flat. Her knees are in the air waving side to side, meeting, then parting; meeting, then parting. The back of one wrist is on her forehead. Her other hand is pressing her lower abdomen into her thighs, one at a time.

    It's just…

    What?

    Well, it's like... Won't it get caught?

    Well, yeah… She speaks the last word as if there is a fermata on it.

    But that's the point. The idea is that it makes things, you know, more... intense. Definitely different. This is for both of us, right? That's what I thought we agreed. But if you don't want to do this, it's fine. I definitely don't want you to do it if you're not 100 percent comfortable with it.

    He snickers.

    What?

    That's a funny way of putting it: If I'm not comfortable with it. It's not exactly about being comfortable, is it?

    She sighs, her eyes closed, and slowly raises herself to her elbows.

    Do you want something to drink? Because I could use something to drink. Do you mind getting it? I don't really want to move.

    She unzips her purse and removes her wallet, but he waves her away before she can withdraw any bills.

    What do you want?

    Do they sell drink-drinks?

    He looks around at the family across the cabin. The girl is doling out cookies from a small package, one at a time to each of her parents. The mother is holding a large soda in one hand, a coffee in the other, which she passes off intermittently to the father.

    I doubt it. 

    She winces even before she moves, pushes herself up to a slouch, her weight way back on her tailbone, then with her hands planted on the bench she raises her pelvis off the seat and stands slowly, as he watches.

    I'll go with you. Sitting makes it worse.

    Imagine what that would be like if you couldn't wear a skirt. She freezes. He shrugs, doesn't look at her, jams his fingertips as far as they will go into his pockets. That's all I'm saying.

    And all I'm saying is you don’t have to do it. Forget it, already. I don't want to hear you go on and on; it's bad enough now, I don't think I could stand it if you actually went through with it.

    They are still standing by the bench. He is still looking at the family.

    Look, let's not even talk about this right now. She waddles toward the stairway that leads down into the boat, one hand on her thigh, one outstretched, grasping for a handhold. He watches her, nodding slightly, then follows her below deck.