Whispers
Boats, though, are different. Boats are vehicles of conquest. First, they take land-dwellers to a place they don’t belong and can’t survive: trespassers on the open sea. Then they make it so easy for land-dwellers to take the bounty of the sea. Fishing is okay, but fishing from a boat? That’s cheating. Then again, maybe that’s just some rationalization after the fact. Maybe I suppressed some horribly traumatic episode of seasickness somewhere in my dimly remembered childhood.
You untied your little outboard launch, lifted me down into it from the dock, and we made our putt-putting way out to your boat. You told me that your plan was to tool around the Southeast. You’d started at Baltimore, next you’d go around Florida, and then to the head of the Gulf of Mexico. You wanted to make it to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras. Cute idea, I said, if you’re obscenely rich, but you assured me that some rich uncle let you borrow his boat, and that you’re having to work your way around the peninsula. It sounded to me like some high-schooler’s idea of going out and finding himself, instead of hitchhiking across Europe.
Your boat, the Sargasso, was small and neatly kept, and the perfection of the coiled ropes and fastidiously tied knots whispered a suggestion of OCD. That was alright, though. Everyone’s obsessive or compulsive in some way. The chrome and brass were shiny, not all grotty with salt, the deck was clean, and a small U.S. flag snapped smartly in the constant breeze.
Below, the galley was tiny, but again, well-maintained. An empty sink, a clean two-eyed stove, and a set of sharp knives stuck to a strip magnet over a counter gave the impression that you didn’t use the galley very much. Even the heavy-duty fire extinguisher looked like its aluminum trigger handle was polished.
On the other side of the boat, the tiny bookshelf by your bed was populated almost exclusively by John Grisham and Nicholas Sparks, and it whispered to me of your ideas of drama and romance. Your bed was hospital-cornered down so tightly that a dropped quarter would have easily bounced off its tight weave.
Yes, I knew this was the opportunity you’d take to move in for a kiss, and I knew I was expected to be helplessly swept from my feet and onto your tiny bunk. So I did, feeling the heat of your mouth, the urgency of your breath, and the wiry strength of your hands.
You whispered so many things to me, some of which were true. Some, I’m sure, were things you thought I wanted whispered to me in the heat of passion. Don’t worry about that, though. I did the same thing to you.
I felt sure that you’d be that magical one for me, my sweet prince come to save me from my own anonymity.
I know the dance of whispered interaction. I can muddle through everyday life by reading the whispers people want read instead of what their whispers actually say, but I’m like the puzzled ghost of a small child—a person who’s never really lived and therefore cannot grasp the enormity and the certainty of death. I function, but only mechanically, needing that special sorcery. The fairy princess needs to find her one true love.
In all the stories, they look into each other’s eyes and just know. She looks into her hero’s eyes and hears the whispers of eternal love. That sweet, demanding whisper incorporates every piece of music ever made with every voice of every angel. The whisper of magic.
That’s the whisper I was waiting for.
We had sex, and I fervently hoped that we’d made love. We whispered to each other with our mouths, our eyes, our limbs, and our hands. We whispered in exotic languages, and understood their meanings explicitly.
After, I eagerly sought your eyes, to look into those twin windows and see forever, and to hear the whispers of the gods.
What I saw destroyed my soul again, just like before.
You’re not the one.
Those twin windows through which I’d hoped to glimpse eternity showed nothing. Eternity was nailed shut, shuttered tight, and sealed before me. Your eyes looked flat and artificial, like the lifeless buttons sewn on a doll. The whispers I read in your eyes spoke of an appetite sated, of drunkenness dissolving into sleep, and of a burgeoning awkwardness that would surely reach full fruit by morning. No glimmer, no hint, no whisper of love was in your eyes.
My blood chilled as your smile whispered those same hurtful things as always.
Thank you.
I appreciate it.
Take a fucking hike, slut.
You rolled over and soon your breathing reached the depth of sleep. I crept noiselessly from your narrow bed and back up to the deck, where I wept to the moon in silence.
When the tears passed, I saw clearly what I had to do. Again. I went to the galley, got the fire extinguisher, and brought it back to your cabin.
Your eyes would never whisper of love to anyone. You have no love to give. For that reason, you have no value at all. What I did, I did in the name of love. Just like that time they said I had to leave college and go back home.
The fire extinguisher was heavy, and the low ceiling added a degree of difficulty, but anything can be a good weapon if you swing it hard enough. The head of a sleeping person is a pretty easy target, too.
Soon, I left in your little outboard, returning to land after I set your course to cross the Atlantic. By the time I reached shore, the Sargasso was just a dwindling speck on dawn’s horizon.
It’s been two weeks, but apparently no one misses you yet.
Your hands are still beautiful. I’ve found that they last longer if they’re kept cold, so most of the time they sit in their bags in the freezer, among all the others.
Sometimes, I take them out and admire them, remembering their heat as they clutched at my flesh. If I bend down the middle finger and ring finger, stick out the thumb, and stretch the others flat, they’re perfect. It’s more difficult to do now that the ligaments and tendons have begun to shrink, but it’s well worth the effort. When I move your fingers like that, it’s just like when Spider Man in the comics is shooting a web. It’s also a sign language symbol.
When I move your fingers like that, they finally whisper what I long to hear:
I love you.
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