She could no longer feel the rain. For weeks, the sky had maintained a fairly perpetual precipitation, spanning from violent downpours to almost snow-like drifts, flutters of rain best described as a torrential mist. Niki sat on the edge of a plastic lounge chair, ignoring the water seeping through her jeans. It was cold and the rain did not agree with her cigarette. She jammed her free hand into the pocket of her coat to escape the chill as she watched the wind ripple the surface of the leaf-strewn swimming pool. She smoked quickly during breaks in the rainfall, when only a light drizzle created shadowed rings on the cement floor of the pool. It was mid-June and the unseasonal chill was starting to become tiresome.
When Niki threw a garbage sack of clothes into the back of a stranger's pick-up truck and followed her whim across the country, she imagined a grand new life for herself, filled with new people, new opportunities, and a new Niki. Four months later, she was working at Dunkin Donuts making $7.30 an hour and spending Friday nights alone by her apartment complex's tacky swimming pool, hood drawn over her head in an absurd attempt to stay dry, scribbling stories in a rain-spotted notebook by the aquatic light. When she spoke to her parents, she told them she was working in a bookstore, she was living in a studio apartment on Beacon St, she was applying to some local colleges, she was dating again. She spent her days hiking along the beach with friends and her nights discussing Nietzsche in beatnik coffee shops. They were so proud. Niki justified these lies by insisting to herself that she would find a better job soon so she could afford a place where the hot water ran for more than four and a half minutes and the neighboring train tracks wouldn't wake her at 5:30 every morning. As for now, she couldn't stand the thought of the disapproving tones, the I told you so, the We're sending money for you to come home now. She couldn't stand the defeat of crawling back through the miles of wheatfields to the one stoplight town where everyone remembered the break-up and her failure to keep a hold of the one person who really mattered. If only Kathryn could see her now, more trapped than ever before, despite the ostensible freedom. Four months and Niki hadn't even seen the ocean.
Niki angrily twisted her cigarette into the wet concrete and stuffed her rolled notebook into the back pocket of her jeans. The metal gate of the pool enclosure clanged shut behind her. She left no footprints on the rain-soaked ground and her skin was slow to dry in the cool night breeze.
The wind whispered softly in the trees, teasing the leaves from their branches, transforming the shoreline into a whirling kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, yellows, browns. The roar of the waves tearing at the stone ten feet below overwhelmed the breath of the wind, sheer rock crumbling under the ocean's power in an act of relentless diminishment. August gazed out at the writhing horizon, eyes straining vainly to separate sea from sky, trying to hold this limitless expanse in sight. At seventeen, he could not bring himself to truly fathom the infinitude of the ocean, foam-capped waves concealing vast potentialities. He inhaled profoundly, gorging himself on the salt-laden air, imagining he could breathe in some particles of the past. August saw standing at his side a mass of people, predecessors of himself, who had dared glance upon these waters. He saw the prophet-poet, lost in solipsistic contemplation, mad eyes rolling at the sea, calling out to the waves I am back now winter's come! A pair of lovers held each other, wrapped tightly in a tattered blanket, for the blackened coals beside them provided neither warmth nor light. They saw reflections of their devotion in the boundless deep by the faint glow of the moon. A young boy threw stones at the waves in retribution for their attack on the fragile ridge, each rock landing further and further out amid the waves until his eyes grew tired of tracking their course. An old lady, blue-haired and brown-eyed, sat on the ridge's ledge, her feet dangling barefoot over the raging waves, too-white tennis shoes placed carefully at her side, socks neatly folded on top. The cool spray licked her toes and she wrapped her shawl, threadbare though well-kept—much like herself—more tightly around her shoulders. August wanted to know these people. He wanted to know how the couple could see in the dim light, why the old lady untied her sneakers, where the prophet-poet had come from, and why the boy chose only smooth stones to throw.
As the summer continued and the nights grew shorter, the rain finally stopped and the weather warmed to temperatures somewhat resembling summertime norms. The first night in weeks that Niki saw the stars was the first night she saw the girl. Niki had become accustomed to the solitude, so when the pool gate's hinges whined laboriously, Niki was quickly startled out of her reflections. It was shortly after twelve, according to the passage of the midnight express train, its resonating whistle marking the last run of the night. The girl had long, dark hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail that she untied upon entering the pool area. She draped her towel—vivid crimson with jet black waves in orderly rows crashing violently against each other—across a plastic chair and entered the water without a word to Niki. Niki noted the deliberation with which she entered the water, striding down the steps of the shallow side and walking steadily toward the deep end, never slackening her pace, until her legs disappeared, then her stomach, her shoulders, her head, until her dark hair was left floating across the surface of the water, then nothing. She emerged at the far wall and began swimming laps, alternating between front crawl and breaststroke. Niki counted the laps, 5, 10, 20, 40. At lap 47, the girl slowly exited the water and wrapped her towel around her dripping navy swimsuit. She didn't acknowledge Niki's presence, the smoke drifting casually into the air, the scratch of her pen on the water-stained notebook.
August slowly made his way across the beach, favoring the woods to the water. The ocean was still so new to him, so terrifying. He saw in the waves the limitlessness of thought, an excess of possibilities that left him feeling both invigorated and alone. He stopped at an old oak tree at the edge of the wood and slowly reached out his hand to feel the rough bark. It seemed out of place amid the aspens, as if it were the sole survivor of a long line of elder trees. August could see the entire coast riddled with majestic oaks, their craggy branches twisting against the ocean breeze. Grasping the branch closest to the ground, August lifted himself up, feet fumbling against the trunk, until he had positioned himself on the bough. It was a sturdy limb, as thick at its base as August himself, so he wiggled out as far as he could on the branch, where he could have the best view of the ocean and the nearby beach. Two little kids, clothes damp over wet swimsuits, beach sand plastered to their hair and feet, rushed by underneath August's branch. Laughing, the smaller one, a boy no older than seven, grabbed his friend's hand, tugging her toward the woods. "What if my tiger got to run away and we've got to find him and your wolf pet can help cause she can smell my tiger so we can find him in the trees where he's run to."
His friend, who was at least taller, if not older, nodded solemnly, her hair falling messily from her ponytail. "Raven's real good at smelling. But your tiger ran away last time. What if he got taken by the pound so we have to save him." The boy nodded emphatically, so she continued, "They might try to hurt him if we don't find him soon. Or they might take him back to the jungle and he will have to live on his own, but he can't do that because he doesn't have any friends in the jungle." At this, the boy took offense, insisting that his tiger was perfectly capable of self-sufficiency in the harsh wilderness. Shrugging, the girl allowed for this amendment to the game and they pressed on into the woods. August gazed out at the waves and tried to put the ocean into words.
The girl with the red towel returned every night to swim laps, and Niki made sure to take a cigarette break shortly after midnight each night. She marveled at the girl's routine, the way she always entered the water with a steady stride, the practiced movement of her strokes, the sight of her long hair drifting momentarily on the water's surface, silhouetted against the pool's green glow. Every night for a week, the girl came to the pool to swim her laps and every night for a week, Niki sat on the green plastic chair and smoked and wrote and said nothing. She made the mistake one night of glancing too soon at the girl as she entered the gate and they established eye contact. The girl smiled at Niki as she let down her hair. With an awkward half-smile, Niki quickly averted her gaze to her notebook and took a shallow drag from her cigarette.
As the girl started on her fourth lap, Niki silently berated herself. This is precisely what Kathryn was talking about, this inability to act, this awkward paralysis. Niki replayed their last conversation over and over in her head. They had memorized the script at that point; the fight was nothing new. Every accusation, every plea was well-rehearsed, and they both knew how it would end, with Kathryn crying and Niki swearing to change and both of them well-aware that the play would just begin again in a week, a month, two months if they're lucky until Kathryn finally told Niki it was over and she needed to be with someone who would be willing to invest herself, to commit, to fight for her. Niki already knew about Megan. She had known for a long time that she was losing her girlfriend. But she couldn't bring herself to do anything. Except leave.
This was supposed to be the pivot upon which Niki could turn her life around so that, soon, she could go home and show Kathryn that, this time, she had changed. This time, she was ready.
The woods slowly made way for the beach, the primary destination for most visitors to this part of the coast. August removed his sandals in order to feel the sand beneath his feet, in between his toes. The sand here was soft to the touch, like the sand he imagined on deserted islands, fine grains molded by the ocean through the years from the harsh cliffs, sole vestiges of grand precipices now reduced to transitory castles made by children who derive half their fun from watching their creation melt with the rising tide. If rock walls could be tapered so effectively, what would become of him?
What would become of him? Niki set aside her notebook. Another week had passed and still Niki held her poolside vigil, watching (with the utmost discretion) the girl swim her laps with the same steady determination she had when entering the water. Niki attempted to force her body to move towards the pool's edge or to let her eyes linger on the girl when the gate squealed its greetings, to initiate a conversation, a word, a smile, a look. But, still, Niki did not speak.
The crowd at the beach distracted August from his thoughts. A frisbee drifted to a stop next to him, followed by an apologetic teenager who offered August a spot in their game. Graciously declining, August found himself utterly incapable of reflection. He watched the people playing in the surf, parents with their children, an old man with a steadily beeping metal detector, another group of teens playing volleyball sans net. August noticed that there was one girl, about his age, who stood complete motionless in the midst of the crowd, not ten feet from where August sat, staring at the ocean pensively. Her long, black hair was wrapped in a messy ponytail and she carried a red towel framing rows of black waves. He realized she had been standing there for quite some time, towel slung casually over her shoulder. As he watched, the girl dropped the towel on the sand, nudging it with her toe in order to pile it more thoroughly. Then, she began to walk out towards the water. Her pace did not waver when she reached the water's edge, but she walked steadily on, the waves rising around her. The ocean rising to meet her did not swallow her up, but rather she became part of it, took it into herself. August rose to his feet. The girl disappeared into the sea until all August could see was her black hair floating among the waves, swaying with the ocean's current like seaweed. August followed her, hesitantly at first, toward the ocean. As the first wave seeped across the sand and touched his feet, August breathed sharply, the cold water unexpected but not necessarily undesirable. As he paused, he saw the girl emerge from the water in front of him, her form bobbing with the swell, a part of the waves, as integral to the waves as the water itself. August walked forward, his steps battling the flow of each swell, water splashing against his body, his feet becoming accustomed to the cold, his stride becoming more confident.
Niki sat down on the edge of the pool and curled her toes over the ledge, testing the concrete border for weakness. I would walk across the surface of this water, she wrote, but the stones in my pockets keep weighing me down. She dipped her feet into the pool, watching as they became distorted through the water, rippling like a fun house mirror. Niki heard the groan of the gate, but did not look up. She stared at her water-warped legs, eerily bright next to the pool's green light. The hushed slap of bare footsteps on concrete. A soft thud as the towel is draped across the plastic chair. Ripples sliding across the water's surface, around her legs and on toward the other side of the pool. August dipped below an approaching wave, feeling the water rush over him toward the beach, his muscles straining against the natural flow of the tide. Niki watched the girl walk past out of her peripheral vision. She only dared look up when she knew the girl would be entirely submerged. Looking down on the underwater figure, Niki saw how her dark hair waved in the water, how her skin glowed in the artificial aquatic light, how her form shimmered softly through the watery lens. August swam steadily, eyes closed to the salty water, seeing only the vision of the girl disappearing into the waves. Niki swung her legs underwater, feeling the liquid's cool resistance, relishing the experiential connection between the girl and herself. The girl swam two laps, one front crawl, one breast stroke. Niki looked up as she noticed the girl diverting her usual course. She shot underwater and emerged a few feet from Niki. August stopped swimming and slowly opened his eyes, shoving his wet hair away from his face. She was barely three feet from him, bobbing along with the small rolling waves, gazing at him intently. Her eyes were pale blue, vivid against her dark hair. His dark brown eyes met her pale blue. They waited. The girl smiled. Her lips curled gently upward, but it was in her eyes that the smile was truly apparent. Niki set aside her tattered notebook. "Hi."