Title:  Surfacing
Date:  Feb. 2002

Xs on the dark sides of her hands. Shut up. Eyes dart from mirror to mirror, 
fumbling with a cheap plastic cosmetics case. Lips. Eyes. Hair. Purse. When 
there are no more excuses, she steps out, blinking into the haze of light. 
She sees him, moving towards her. Wonders what to do when they meet in 
the middle. 

Tire bits like portkeys. Transported suddenly to the carefree past, kick ball
is the biggest worry. Will she be picked first, and be singed by the spotlight? 
Picked last and wounded by the taunting? She meets his eyes and the world 
tilts, reality crashing down upon her dizzy brain. 

The woods are beautiful. She can't look away from the dew drop, and the 
smoky fog illuminates all the details. A raccoon brings momentary terror, but 
they know the situation for what it is. 

His speech echoes the thoughts she'd always imagined to be her own, too 
unique for others to share. Too deep for others to grasp. She doesn't want 
to leave, doesn't want to move, and it is perfect, even with the incongruous 
vingette with the little liar. Surreal, the helmet in the water, and suddenly 
they need egg rolls more than anything. 

She tries to mask her habits, but doesn't bother as soon as he points them 
out. She contemplates eating more and more and more until she can't get 
out of the booth, until her stomach swells to fill the restaurant, to prevent 
the inevitable end. 

Driving through the twilight down an interstate cluttered with cultural 
detritas, she realizes that the pain in her chest isn't blossoming from the 
loss of the camera. The loss of that soul is what pushes the tears to spill 
out of the pseudo-Asian lids. With a sigh, she switches the station and 
shoves the experience back into the drawer with all those other shining 
moments, the ones she cannot relive, for fear of never surfacing again.