By The River
She told me she missed me. She blamed me for not visiting her often enough.
I held her. Tight. Right there by the river. The final rays of sunlight reflected off the surface of the river, and glistened off her wet skin.
I held her. And kissed her cheeks, and tasted salty tears. And I promised her that I would never leave her side again.
She looked up and said that it was uncommon for surfacer to be with her kind. I said I don’t care. That I was happy with her and she with me and that was all that mattered.
She cried and smiled at the same time. Sorrow crossed her brow. And she opened her mouth.
There, by the river, in the last rays of sunlight she bit me. Hard. I felt her sharp teeth dug into my shoulder. I screamed.
And held her tighter. Like a broken man holding on to his past, like a limpet on a rocky beach. Like I was holding on to dear life.
And then, with me held tight in her arms, she dove into the river.
I held my breath as long as I could. I held my breath until my lungs burned, until I saw stars, until I began to feel light-headed. Until instinct forced me to take a deep breath or die.
And I thought I’d died.
But I saw wonders.
