Of Wings and Water (and other incompatible things)
“Yes, well, haven’t you ever wanted to be extraordinary?” she asks, leaning forward to press her forehead to mine. I shake my head. We jostle at the movement, our skulls clashing together in a movement that would be painful if it weren’t so familiar.
“Why not?”
My first response is to reach behind her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, pulling her tight to my body. Her skin is soft under my fingers, wet with ocean waters, warm to the touch. She doesn’t tense, doesn’t tilt her head questioningly—simply accepts this response.
“Sometimes I’m afraid,” I say, even if it is not strictly true. (‘I’m afraid to lose you,’ I sometimes say. This is equally as true as the other reply.)
(Once upon a time, an angel fell from the sky, and a mermaid found him sitting by the side of her pool. They fell in love--with each other and each other’s worlds. This is a possible truth: I’ve grown to love her more than I’ve grown to love the ocean.
This is not true: She loves me more than the sky.)
“It’d be like the sky,” she says. “The sky’s got so many different colours. You can’t be afraid of the sky.”
I shake my head again and pull her closer.
(I am not afraid of the sky. I am afraid of what the sky can do. I hate the sky; sometimes I wish it would be swallowed in the crashing waters of a sea storm, that the arching waves would finally dissolve the dark clouds above.)
“I’d feel lost there,” I say. “I’d never be able to find my way home to you.”
“I could never lose you.”
“What if you could fly?”
She purses her lips, her hands loosening as if she wants to let go at the mere thought of being able to soar. Her eyes flicker up. The clouds reflect in her eyes. They drift past her irises like lazy gods—white and enormous and only reachable through her dreams. She does not need to say anything for me to understand.
I grab her hands and twine them with mine, hoping, desperately, that I can reach her through those slender digits.
The sky meets the ocean with an almost imperceptible horizon today. All around us, it is so blue. I look at our hands, still entwined, and imagine they are the horizon. I would do anything to give her my wings in exchange for her tail. She sits in the water, heavy, her eyes lined with sea salt, her hair a splay of tangled seaweed behind her.
I want to tell her there is nothing above her head except for empty winds and impassive clouds. I want to tell her to stop dreaming of being something she is not. I want to pull her close until the end of time, to grab onto her arms and never let go. I do not, because when I feel her fingers tighten in my hand and smell the slow sea breeze, I dream of muddy riverbanks and cool waters.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be extraordinary? Ever?” she asks me again.
