Open Water, Caleb Nelson [best summer books txt] 📗

feeling of safety? And here you are, safe in her presence, separated only by each other’s silence.

‘How are you feeling?’ you ask.

‘I’m nervous. About this,’ she says, pointing to the camera equipment you’re setting up.

‘You’ll be fine. You’ve got this.’

‘About us too.’ A pause. ‘Do we need ­to –’

The doorbell goes.

‘Talk,’ she says. ‘I was gonna ask if we need to talk. But like, nothing happened, right?’

‘Right. Nothing happened.’

‘We’re all good?’

‘Definitely. Right?’

‘Right.’ The doorbell goes again.

‘You should get that.’

‘You should get that.’ You both smile at the absurdity of it all. At the feeling of feeling absurd.

You spend the afternoon taking photos of her friend, who is a poet. Later, much later, you’ll look up some of the poet’s work, and find ‘Before Leaving’, a cyclical poem about things which go unsaid. A poem about comings and goings, and the gaps between a dial tone, those pauses like percussive breaks where your own breath is the loudest. The poet sees words unspoken in the embrace between you and her. The poet sees both the tremble in the water and the sinking stone which caused the ripple. The poet sees you, the poet sees her, and you’re grateful for some lucidity in this mist.

You share a table at dinner, the three of you, and when you’re departing, the poet who sees you and her, sees the ripple and the sinking stone, tells both of you to stay out of trouble.

The trouble is, that afternoon, a day after she arrived, a day after the fever dream began, you’re taking photos and she looks towards you while the poet is talking. She loses concentration for a moment, and holds your gaze, for one, two, three, before recovering. When you get the images, you’re sure you stopped breathing, and held the gaze, one, two, three, before recovering, a slight judder to the camera as you were jolted back to the present. The trouble is, this is trouble that you welcome. You realize there is a reason clichés exist, and you would happily have your breath taken away, three seconds at a time, maybe more, by this woman.

The trouble is, you are not only sharing dinner tables with her, you are in the process of beginning to share your life in a way you have not before. You’re walking from the station to her house, the street lights dousing you in tough glares at intervals. You’re talking about a play you have both seen, The Brothers Size. You saw it twice in its short London run, and both times found your breath robbed, hot tears trailing one after the other down your cheeks. It is a play about the conditions under which unconditional love might break; in the end, one finds they will never not cry for their brothers.

‘I saw it too, and it got me, but I don’t know if it got me like that,’ she says.

‘I helped raise my brother. I know what it’s like to love like that. To have joy and to be pained, and sometimes to have real anger towards him. He’s my best friend but sometimes he’s like my son too.’

She doesn’t look at you while you cry in the darkness but she does take hold of your hand, rubbing her thumb across the back. This closeness, this comfort, is enough.

11

The trouble is, the day after, the haze arrives like a night mist. You’re sitting in the National Theatre with Isaac, amongst cold bricks and concrete, warm, fever unbroken. You’re having difficulty concentrating. You long for her touch. The night before, you held each other in the same way.

‘Do you have to leave?’

‘I should. I have to return all this equipment kinda early.’

‘How early?’

‘He wants it by seven.’

‘Shit, that is early.’ She nestled closer, if that were possible. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘Definitely,’ you said.

The trouble is, and let’s explain this trouble, yes: you are tumbling in the heat of a fever dream, and you surface only to plunge once more. Donatien Grau’s words: When the mind is lost in ecstasy, there is no condition for ­self-­reflection, ­self-­questioning. You’re not asking yourself questions. You’re not asking yourself about the conditions under which you and she met. You’re not thinking of the night in the pub when you urged Samuel to introduce the pair of you. You’re not thinking of the night you all found yourselves in her flat, your own attraction bright like a small flame. You’re not thinking of the fact that that friend no longer considers you so, will not return your calls or text messages. You’re not thinking of what it looks like. You’re not thinking. You’re feeling. You are in a memory of something yet to happen. You want to sigh with hunger sated. You want to hold her in the hot darkness. You ­want –

‘You hear me? Wanna go to a show tonight?’ Isaac asks.

‘I’m meant to be seeing my friend,’ you say.

‘Your friend, huh?’

‘My friend,’ you insist, though who are you trying to convince? Isaac or yourself ?

‘Let’s get drinks before, then. What time you seeing her?’

‘How’d you know it’s a woman?’

‘This isn’t my first rodeo.’

‘What you mean?’

‘You look like you got hit by a bus, and you dusted yourself off, and did it again for the hell of it. You look like you’re wondering when the next time you can get hit by that bus is.’

‘What a strange analogy.’

‘Am I lying?’

No, he is not. You are back again, in a memory of something yet to happen. You want to sigh with hunger sated. You want to hold her in the hot darkness. You want your bodies to say what cannot be otherwise said.

Later that evening, she asks you to join her drinking in Bethnal Green. You don’t think, announcing to your friends that you are leaving. Isaac looks on with a knowing glint in his eye, and says nothing.

‘But you just bought a ticket to the show,’ another friend says.

‘Can I have it?’ his companion says, having joined your group in the past few minutes.

‘Done. Problem solved.’

You leave your