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Her curls were fiery, her eyes like deep springs of water, as she hovered, surrounded by winter skies. Worrying about me looked so good on her.
Cathy and I never had such an interaction in real life. Our pleasure existed in my imagination. I’m sure if I’d tried, she would’ve let me. But I admit I was too scared. It’s embarrassing to look back on my silly human girl fears and recall the many opportunities I let pass by.
I rested my head against Brad’s shoulder. His nose snuggled against the top of my head. “Do you like me?” he asked. I shrugged. “Does it matter?”
The more desperate he was, the more desired I felt.
I planned to land like a cross onto your bed where your body indent rested—back then, hell, even now, I would have been willing to die by crucifixion if you controlled the nail and hammer.
I craved those two water-snake-girlfriends’ adventures. All day long, they splashed and swam outdoors together; they were wanton, witchlike girls, liking eccentric and forbidden ways, relinquished of their stupid earthly conflicts. I pleaded for a partnership like theirs.
You were so heavy. Sometimes when I’m sitting down, I feel a heavy weight on my thighs, and I look down, expecting to see your head, but there’s nothing, just my skin, and all the muscle and bone and fat it hides—you’ve become my phantom limb.
I had adjusted to a life with her consistent presence, and to spend so many hours lying immobile without her was a malicious act against my nature.
And like the unspoken implications in our friendship, Cathy and I had always carried our connotations differently.
Our choices showed who and what we loved. I had chosen water, mermaid. Cathy had chosen me.















































