SUNDAY WITH JESSICA
COBY ASHPIS
I am rowing to the center of the lake. Jessica is across from me, hunched over in her seat. She doesn’t talk. I don’t expect her to. I try to blink the sun out of my eyes. No luck. We’re almost out far enough. Only a few more strokes. Paddles dip in and out. Little tornados ripple though the pale grey surface of the water. Ah. We’re here. I bring the paddles up and they clunk on the lip of the boat. I sit back and take in the stillness. It’s early. It’s real nice. Just me and Jessica and the light morning fog. The trees on the banks surrounding us are leaning in, craning their necks to eavesdrop. They’re disappointed with our silence. I bend over in the boat and swat away empty beer cans. I know there’s gotta be one left. I grab it and crack it open. I love that noise. It’s soothing. The can is speckled with dew, cold and moist in my palm. I raise the can in a toast to Jessica before taking the first sip. She doesn’t say anything. I stare at her for a few minutes as I drink my beer. I finish it and crush it in my hand. I drop it onto the heap of its discarded brothers. I steady myself and climb over to Jessica’s side of the boat. I nudge her to the side and sit on her left. I put my left arm behind her back and my right under her legs, cradling her. I prop her up and heave her over the side of the boat. She slides into the water with a dull plop. The weight tied to her legs carries her under the water steadily. I stand in the boat looking down at her. I wait until I can’t see her anymore. I sit back down on my seat and look for another beer.
