The Myth of Summer

Her memory was impeccable; impervious. And miserable. She would walk that very same path and knew exactly where the step down would be. Try to count the steps until the unforseen failing and falling would render her completely paraplegic, strapped for life in a wheelchair with eyes averting and innocent, curious children asking "what happened to your legs, lady?" and the industrious corn-fed salt of the earth types knowingly but tacitly acknowledging that it was God's Will. And God will do what He will. Oh, he will.

But she wouldn't trip. Not this day, walking the same path home from Sunday Funday with Jenz. No last ghost for her.

"You remember the pool with Bobby Flay? Remember how hot he was?"

"Worst name."

"He would - oh GOD! Worst name. But he looked like -"

"Ken."

Amelia sucked on her cherry lollipop, every last tart sweet drip. There's a technique, we hope, to sucking every last drip out of everything that tastes of anything, right down to and including the paper stick. Every spot on the tongue receives a different taste: sweet, summery, sublime, surreal, seduced, surrendered. Cherried. With a cherry on top.

"He looked like fuckin Ken." Jen said in the Sat Down, Yes Indeed tone of agreement they do in the Midwest, flipping her hands through the water in sunglassed recline.

Flay. If we could have stopped to think what a ridiculous name, well anyway we didn't end up with him did we.

Amelia threw the last part of the stick over the fence into the gravel and god knows what cacti. It is literally called god knows what cacti. Well at any point, at this point it is.

Dives in, stays down, opens eyes. Burning chlorine eyes. She shoves her upper body down to hand plant on the bottom of the pool, and fights the water's urge to bring her up to where she belongs. Melia fishtails and points her legs in the opposite direction, opening eyes to see the 3' tile on the other side bathing and waving in blue. She achieves the perfect handstand, accomplished only when the water holds you still enough. Tiny circles like whisking a cake mix, she spreads her hands an inch and pushes till she is fully upright, upside down. Crosses her arms over her chest then extends her arms to swirl her body around underneath. Looking.


Jenz through blue. Legs, motion. Nothing like the motion of water. Her calves and wrists and ass, in a blow up raft bluer than this blue, in contra to, motioning but going nowhere. Going nowhere, going nowhere...

The blunted fluid watery sound of her voice through the water.

Up and harsh air, quiet has gone, replaced by distant sirens, splashing, the kids a few apartments up screaming, television roaring.

"What are you doing down there. Come up and get a tan."

Amelia tries to clear her nose of chlorine. Nothing gets rid of that sting. You just have to let it take its course just like Gammy said. In time, Darlin, it'll just pass, won't even notice that stung anymore.

"You find any pennies? Give me some. I'm fuckin broke." Jenz didn't even crack a grin. Poverty isn't funny unless you really release yourself to it, laugh at the ridiculousness of counting pennies to see the afternoon movie together. Fuck pennies.

Exhale and back float. Cloud watch. Thin strips dragged faintly, whispers across so much blue. Listen to your own breath. Breathe. Float. Listen. Sink. Inhale. Hear the muffled sound of voices through water. Flip over. Breast stroke over to plastic full of margarita juice gone melty and sickly sweet. Still got tequila. Backflip underwater, swim to other side, touch, turn & go, race yourself to the shallow end. Go fast. Keep it shallow.

"Hey what was that bitch's name, the one that stole Mark from you in tenth grade."

Clear nose, half submerge, let the fluid water pull your hair back, pop up half a body in the now sunny cool air top half only.

"Aimee Frisbee."

"AIMEE fuckin Frisbee. Oh god that's right. I guarantee you she got knocked up."

"Yet another ridiculous name. His last name should have been..."

What should it have been. Underwater again, shark attack on Jen. Jen, underneath, grabs her sunglasses still on. All bangles of easily greened gold painted wrists of hers figure 8 to come back up. Amelia smiles underwater and Jenz gives it long enough to flip her the bird, come up, and in one fell swoop scoop the raft under her arms and frog swim around. Slowly paddle toward the other side to palm her melted margarita in the bright lime green plastic cup.

Amelia climbs out and lies on her towel, warmed from the sun baked concrete.

"Fucking Will," Amelia says as she lays a towel over her eyes.

"Oh now it's fuck Will?"

"He doesn't know what he wants. Including me. I'm gonna ask out the hottie that comes into Swoozie's. He lingers."

Jenz laughs. "You are going to ask HIM out." And then, curious, "He lingers?"

"He lingers. Longer than he needs to. Which either means he has brass balls or is doing the I'm-too-shy-to-ask-you-out thing. He's gonna make me do it."

"You gonna do it?"

Amelia removes the towel from her eyes, the world turning red to orange to yellow to normal in the sun as her eyes adjust to the brightness, sits up, downs the last of the sickly sweet now warm margarita, looks at Jenz.

"What the fuck have I got left to lose?"

They laugh like it's the funniest thing in the world but looking in different directions, a private inside joke to each, separately. In separate ways.

Loneliness eradicated. Connected forever. Warm in the sun. Pleasure forever. Unending cocktails. Best friends forever. Memories that fade like sunburns weeks later, to peel and die and skin changes anew. Temporary and transparent, like looking through water. Absence of pain. Laughter abound. The myth of summer. Everything fades, like names scrawled with a scarlet polished fingernail through the water. The temporary crackle and spark of sparklers on 4th of July, write your name only to have it disappear forever, like it will disappear from their lips. The sting that lingers as the seasons change is the constant. Let it live. Change is the one thing you can count on.