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Michelle Dotter


Photo Credit: Imre Kissik/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

What I remember most is the heat. It was so hot that summer we were fifteen that we couldn’t breathe—every day was like a thick cloud of steam sitting on the cabin by the lake. Even the crickets were quiet. The sunset made the lake boil in the red earth.

At night, we couldn’t sleep because of the aching humidity that never went away. Even with all the doors open, the air didn’t move—I exhaled and pulled the same inhale back in. Watched you doing the same. One night I caught your eye and we ran down to the well and threw buckets of water on each other, fully clothed, soaking ourselves until we shivered in spite of the heat. Then we sprawled out on the dirt floor of the cabin, each of us listening to the sound of the water dripping out of our shirts. It made little pools on the ground, and I rolled over to keep as much of my body in the water as possible, and so that I could see you through the shadows, the charcoal smudge of your face dreaming of dreams.

The best were the nights when neither of us was tired, and we lay there staring at the ceiling like the dark planks were suddenly going to open into another world and pull us into something—the black box of the universe at the moment of unfolding, when every thought was a supernova. It never happened but I never stopped believing it might. I’d shift and put my arm under my head and you’d roll over onto your side, putting up with the heat of one part of your skin touching another so that you could look at me. You were my mirror, my mirage in the dark.

Nights like that, my name sounded strange when you said it, like you were testing each syllable because you weren’t sure it was going to hold. I’m burning up, you’d say as you laughed, and in the moonlight your face grew up so fast that I wasn’t sure, for a minute, who I was talking to. Let’s jump in the lake. Race ya.

The last night, you were still dripping when you stood up. I stared at the back of your shirt, at the dampness that made you shimmer as we ran to the dock, the first time you ever beat me. The moon was sleeping on the surface of the lake; it woke with a start as you jumped right through it, silent like the crickets I hadn’t seen all summer.

When you went under, I held my breath for you.

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Michelle Dotter is the editor-in-chief of Dzanc Books, a nonprofit independent press committed to literary excellence in fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Molotov Cocktail, Entropy, and the No Extra Words podcast. Email: michelle.dotter[at]gmail.com

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