Still
On rare nights the fog hangs still by the Bay, making everything drip and crawl like a weathered rope.
It clogged thick the trees, the bugs, and the rusty fan on a chipped wood ceiling above.
Underneath my borrowed shorts the old picnic tabletop was soft with something like dew.
I leaned back on my hands carefully and stretched a little.
It didn’t help; the heat was still gross, and enough to hate.
So I counted mosquito bites on my legs. I’m allergic and there were enough to worry. But each was a war wound from a previous night; a cooler night spent debating, drinking, and stargazing by the water’s edge.
Surrounding me, the outdoor wood pavilion was littered with picnic tables of old childhood friends. The same friends who stole into the shadows of trees, or the sanctuary of the pavilion, on the nights we came together.
No one tried to compete with the fog, the approaching waves, or the music from two guitars and a ukulele.
I fidgeted every now and then.
Just a few feet away an unseen wave spoke like another friend, catching between concrete rocks. I turned, leaned, and tried to see where the night sky met the Bay. It was hopeless. But I could still feel it there.
I could even smell it there.
A guitar string went “piink” and snapped. Someone groaned and the music paused. Some others shifted.
“so going swimming later”.
I wanted to imagine splashing into the water that I couldn’t see, I wanted to see who would agree.
No one spoke.
The three musical friends resumed their song.
Some of the girls watched, and some of the guys drank.
A friend’s cell phone said the time. Hours ago my parents expected me at home instead. It was midweek; I had work at noon. There were more mosquito bites on my skin.
I peered around at our scattered crew, each in chosen places. I had missed their company, and the time away was ready to be made up for.
I liked the idea that it always came back to these waters, and these rolling friendships.
I even liked the fog, the darkness, and the song being played by a tempting voice. I pretended it was about me.
Ultimately, someone would stir and nod goodnight, heading to parent’s boats for sleep. Sometimes in a pair.
So I’d listen to flip flops crunch the gravel across the back lot, reach the first pier plank, and vanish.
Still I waited to depart. There might be possibilities afloat.
It was the thickest night I could remember. It made the hours slow.
An odd feeling, of immobility and imagined chances.
Like imagined romance.
Alone and stepping lightly the next morning, the deck ropes were wet below my feet. I tried to wipe the heat from heavy eyelids, tried to shake the stillness from my muscles.
Already I missed my couch bed on the sailboat. Already, I couldn’t wait for the workday ahead to be over.
I couldn’t wait to return here on Friday. It was like camp. Like a home, and a few stolen spots only some can value.
I put the windows down in my car.
The pavilion looked bare, the fog was slinking back.
On rare nights the fog hangs still by the Bay, making everything drip and crawl like a weathered rope.
It clogged thick the trees, the bugs, and the rusty fan on a chipped wood ceiling above.
Underneath my borrowed shorts the old picnic tabletop was soft with something like dew.
I leaned back on my hands carefully and stretched a little.
It didn’t help; the heat was still gross, and enough to hate.
So I counted mosquito bites on my legs. I’m allergic and there were enough to worry. But each was a war wound from a previous night; a cooler night spent debating, drinking, and stargazing by the water’s edge.
Surrounding me, the outdoor wood pavilion was littered with picnic tables of old childhood friends. The same friends who stole into the shadows of trees, or the sanctuary of the pavilion, on the nights we came together.
No one tried to compete with the fog, the approaching waves, or the music from two guitars and a ukulele.
I fidgeted every now and then.
Just a few feet away an unseen wave spoke like another friend, catching between concrete rocks. I turned, leaned, and tried to see where the night sky met the Bay. It was hopeless. But I could still feel it there.
I could even smell it there.
A guitar string went “piink” and snapped. Someone groaned and the music paused. Some others shifted.
“so going swimming later”.
I wanted to imagine splashing into the water that I couldn’t see, I wanted to see who would agree.
No one spoke.
The three musical friends resumed their song.
Some of the girls watched, and some of the guys drank.
A friend’s cell phone said the time. Hours ago my parents expected me at home instead. It was midweek; I had work at noon. There were more mosquito bites on my skin.
I peered around at our scattered crew, each in chosen places. I had missed their company, and the time away was ready to be made up for.
I liked the idea that it always came back to these waters, and these rolling friendships.
I even liked the fog, the darkness, and the song being played by a tempting voice. I pretended it was about me.
Ultimately, someone would stir and nod goodnight, heading to parent’s boats for sleep. Sometimes in a pair.
So I’d listen to flip flops crunch the gravel across the back lot, reach the first pier plank, and vanish.
Still I waited to depart. There might be possibilities afloat.
It was the thickest night I could remember. It made the hours slow.
An odd feeling, of immobility and imagined chances.
Like imagined romance.
Alone and stepping lightly the next morning, the deck ropes were wet below my feet. I tried to wipe the heat from heavy eyelids, tried to shake the stillness from my muscles.
Already I missed my couch bed on the sailboat. Already, I couldn’t wait for the workday ahead to be over.
I couldn’t wait to return here on Friday. It was like camp. Like a home, and a few stolen spots only some can value.
I put the windows down in my car.
The pavilion looked bare, the fog was slinking back.
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