Ripples

or, a short story of a thing

Hello.

I caught sight of an iceberg recently. Not a real one. No, no. One that had upon its surface something that glinted in the meagre light. I had to write it out, just to see what it was.

I don’t think it’s much. A part broken off of a larger whole, the other slab out there for someone else. It floated my way, that part, so I rowed up to it, inspected it, took tentative steps across its cool surface.

I don’t know what it is.

But I’ll leave it floating below, preserved in the icy waters.

Photo by Snappy Shutters on Unsplash

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“I’m having trouble with reality.”

Ben tossed another stone into the pond. The water accepted it with a welcoming plunk.

It was the first time he'd spoken for fifteen minutes. The sun had crept westward, the shadow of the church’s spire dragging across the ground as though we were upon the face of some giant sundial. A pair of moorhens emerged from the reeds, clucking their indifference as they coasted along the surface.

Ben shifted, edging further into the shade of the tree.

He never did like the sun.

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to look at him. His sunglasses rested on his chest, rising and falling; the black cap—the one I’d brought back from Paris—was beneath his head, the thinnest of pillows.

“Like, everything.” He squinted at the sky, then shrugged. “All of it. I don’t think it’s really there.”

I rolled onto my back and watched as two white clouds floated formless and undisturbed.

“That stone was real,” I offered, studying the clouds, their true shapes elusive. “At least, it was. Can't say I know what happens to a stone once it sinks to the bottom. Like the tree in the forest, you know?” I looked to him again, hoping; the skin of his face, the smooth lines, the sparse stubble of his chin—nothing. A bumblebee flew overhead, off to find a richer field.

“Stones. Trees. People.” His voice was low and I caught the sheen of a single tear on his cheek. It held for short a moment before gravity had its way. “Even you, Mia.”

I shut my eyes, edging one foot back into sunlight, feeling the warmth, the prickle of the grass.

Even me, what? I wanted to ask. But asking anything would be pointless. I’d known the moment we left. The way he’d plucked at the barley. The way his boot struck dandelions. The disinterest in anything I said. It was all a continuation of days past.

I should have asked anyway.

I didn’t, though. I just lay there, fingers laced behind my head, feeling the breeze against my cheeks, listening to the crickets and the buzz of another bumblebee. The last sounds of summer.

I should have asked. I should have asked him anything. At least he would have listened.

He doesn’t listen now. Not ever.

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Thank you for reading. I’m not certain a footnote is necessary. This one is more melancholy than usual; a little restrained, maybe. I can’t always dictate what wants to be written. I hope you found something within and between the words.