You & Me

by Tal Bauer

“It’s not. It’s cool. I like it. We’ll have to try it.” “Carménère is not a wine for beginners.” “I’ve had wine before.” “MadDog 20/20 doesn’t count.”

Eventually, we found a quiet spot tucked along the north shore, and we looped our kayaks together before we slipped over the sides to swim in the cool waters. It was deep enough at that spot that we couldn’t touch the bottom. I had visions of lake monsters eyeing our toes and debating whether we were worth possible exposure on the nightly news for a nibble of flesh.

I had an artist’s distance from the world, observing rather than participating. Most of the time, it seemed like there was cling film between me and everyone else, or like I was shouting through water to try to communicate. I never knew what to say or what to do, so instead, I kept my mouth shut,

There seemed to be a wall between us where there had never been one before. Our puzzle felt broken.

He kissed the corner of my lips, my cheek, my closed eye. He was shaking, almost trembling apart. “Are we going to do this?” I whispered. “Because if this is you saying goodbye…” His fingers tightened. “We shouldn’t.” The house was silent, but I had to strain to hear him. “We could be amazing—” I felt his swallow, his body shudder in my arms. “Or we could break each other’s hearts.” I kissed his cheek. My lips were wet and tasted of salt. “I don’t want to break your heart. I want to fall in love with you.”