[Are you happy?]
There’s a river below him and he’s sitting in a boat and Lark is across from him, rowing.
Paris is meant to be beautiful at night, a metallic garden flooded with dull gold. A lie. He
can hardly see the stars, the murkiness of the Seine now the only sky he has; he has been here before, many a time with his family, so he should know how faux it all is, how lovely at a distance yet awful in detail, but it disappoints him nonetheless.
Maybe it is because Lark is here, and she is the last lovely thing he knows. She’s smiling,
somehow, gazing over the far bank as she rows—the city does not deserve her, but it bends to her, its mirage of lights reflecting off of her glasses, the sun to the moon. It’s nearly a miracle she’s here at all, still breathing and capable; Rhodey can’t help but feel a twinge of joy between his ribs, seeing her in his city on the Seine in his boat exactly as they’d promised all those years ago but at the same time it hurts in the most awful of ways.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to see that promise come true after betraying
it.
He hates himself for it, every night another war with the memories his dreams bring.
They’re always the same ones, looping as if played on a stuttering disc. He sees their shared high school days, sees her sitting in hollow grey at his side in a stadium, sees her dancing in a sapphire gown in a ballroom with a hand on his waist, another on his arm; he sees her lying on a colorless beach under an overcast sky and white sun, water filling her lungs, himself unable to revive her.
He sees himself standing on the roof’s edge, already over the railing, and Lark clinging to
him from behind it. She’s crying. She’s always crying in this memory–the others become
distorted on occasion, and she’s happy in the stadium, or she’s smiling under the chandelier. Sometimes she even dies on the beach and the sea foam blossoms from her caught-open eyes, boring up into his skull and telling him it should’ve been you.
But on the roof, under a lightless sky, she is always crying.
There’s a river below him and he’s sitting in a boat and Lark is across from him, rowing.
Paris is meant to be beautiful at night, a metallic garden flooded with dull gold. A lie. He
can hardly see the stars, the murkiness of the Seine now the only sky he has; he has been here before, many a time with his family, so he should know how faux it all is, how lovely at a distance yet awful in detail, but it disappoints him nonetheless.
Maybe it is because Lark is here, and she is the last lovely thing he knows. She’s smiling,
somehow, gazing over the far bank as she rows—the city does not deserve her, but it bends to her, its mirage of lights reflecting off of her glasses, the sun to the moon. It’s nearly a miracle she’s here at all, still breathing and capable; Rhodey can’t help but feel a twinge of joy between his ribs, seeing her in his city on the Seine in his boat exactly as they’d promised all those years ago but at the same time it hurts in the most awful of ways.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to see that promise come true after betraying
it.
He hates himself for it, every night another war with the memories his dreams bring.
They’re always the same ones, looping as if played on a stuttering disc. He sees their shared high school days, sees her sitting in hollow grey at his side in a stadium, sees her dancing in a sapphire gown in a ballroom with a hand on his waist, another on his arm; he sees her lying on a colorless beach under an overcast sky and white sun, water filling her lungs, himself unable to revive her.
He sees himself standing on the roof’s edge, already over the railing, and Lark clinging to
him from behind it. She’s crying. She’s always crying in this memory–the others become
distorted on occasion, and she’s happy in the stadium, or she’s smiling under the chandelier. Sometimes she even dies on the beach and the sea foam blossoms from her caught-open eyes, boring up into his skull and telling him it should’ve been you.
But on the roof, under a lightless sky, she is always crying.
The confounding variable is himself. Sometimes he falls and abruptly awakens in a cold sweat, unable to breathe, having watched his own ribs snap and his lungs collapse into themselves, a splash of red so vibrant and glistening it could’ve been oil paint.
So no, Rhodey does not deserve to call her his best friend, his found sister. He does not
have the right to be anything more than a burden, a lead sinker.
Sinker. He inevitably thinks of the rooftop again. If he’d really fallen, what if she didn’t
let go and fell with him? That genius, with that mind of hers, she would’ve figured out a way to make sure he landed on top of her, her corpse just enough cushioning against the pavement for him to survive. God, he’d really never forgive himself if that happened. The thought alone makes his legs jolt, as if they were dangling over a five-story tall freefall. No, focus. Lark is alive, and– and she’s looking at him now.
“Hey, Rhodey.” She’s cheerful, a faint, aching radiance. “You look like you’re thinking.”
“Is there something so bad about me thinking?” He can’t help but smile, too, removed
from his recollections far too abruptly to connect. “I have a bit of my brain still left in there, y’know?”
So no, Rhodey does not deserve to call her his best friend, his found sister. He does not
have the right to be anything more than a burden, a lead sinker.
Sinker. He inevitably thinks of the rooftop again. If he’d really fallen, what if she didn’t
let go and fell with him? That genius, with that mind of hers, she would’ve figured out a way to make sure he landed on top of her, her corpse just enough cushioning against the pavement for him to survive. God, he’d really never forgive himself if that happened. The thought alone makes his legs jolt, as if they were dangling over a five-story tall freefall. No, focus. Lark is alive, and– and she’s looking at him now.
“Hey, Rhodey.” She’s cheerful, a faint, aching radiance. “You look like you’re thinking.”
“Is there something so bad about me thinking?” He can’t help but smile, too, removed
from his recollections far too abruptly to connect. “I have a bit of my brain still left in there, y’know?”
“Sure, sure.” She’s teasing, rowing the boat forth another drift. “Whatcha thinking
about?”
And to that he has no answer. “...stuff.” He picks at his cuff. “Thinking about when we
were younger, how we once said we’d do just this.”
“Ah.” Lark seems surprised. She averts her gaze. “...that’s... that feels like it was an
eternity ago.”
“It was.” The two lapse into a sweet quiet again, contemplative as Lark no doubt replays
the memory in her own head. Distorted, he’d imagine her version of events to be. He often
wonders how she thinks, how she remembers things. Are they all cast under a hazy grey, just like his own, only the shade is different?
Staring down into the water, he can’t help but see reflections within their dim depths.
Reflections of the buildings and the lights, yes, and of him, but he thinks he can see projections of silk there, visions from that waltz, ghost fish carrying pictures of distant beauty. It’d been a business party, his parents’, and he’d taken her along. They’d danced together, and both of them had just been their own, real selves, and that was it. No tarnishing, no impure additions. An untouched image filled with hope yet stained more so by Lark’s own despair.
Unconsciously, he begins to lean over the edge, reaching out a hand for the water.
Further, further– he can see her back in the ripples, the sheer of the dress, and he wishes to touch that star-strewn image once more, a day of innocence, the last one before it started to get bad again.
What he doesn’t expect is that the boat rocks with his weight, and suddenly, he feels
himself tipping into freefall, more weight over the water than away. And he doesn’t do anything to stop it, he simply holds his breath and shuts his eyes, waiting for the water to hit him and fill him with a murky cool until it doesn’t, and he notices the hand on his shoulder, another on his arm.
He looks up to see Lark staring back at him, her face one of relief. “You dummy. What
would I have done if you’d fallen in?” she teases on a feather-light tone, affectionate. He stares blankly, still stunned as a fish with a cracked-open skull, and her expression buds into one of concern. “Hey, are you okay?” He doesn’t know what she refers to anymore. “Come back to me, Rhodey. You’re alive, after all, aren’t you?”
And at once the world cuts into noisy, saturated, crystal-clear focus. The image of her
soft-edged face before him, her hair a hazy gold, is too bright to be real, surely; but he can hear cars in the distance, the rustle of the river current up close. “...I’m fine.” He doesn’t want to think about it, about the memory that mirrored itself into the water, not when she’s still here and still graced by a streak of youth. “Thank you.”
“It’s kinda funny, really.” She laughs, sitting back and setting her fingers upon the
paddles. “We once promised we’d do that, too, didn’t we?”
Did we? But the memory is already there, ripe in his mind, and he smiles right back at her
just thinking about it.
“We’ll go boating on the Seine, and you’ll catch me when I almost fall into the river.”
“Yeah. We did.”
There’s something about their promises that drags him into the worst of his past, casting
him in a delusional haze. And yet, he isn’t upset with this, sitting in a rowboat with Lark on a river filled with yellow lights.
about?”
And to that he has no answer. “...stuff.” He picks at his cuff. “Thinking about when we
were younger, how we once said we’d do just this.”
“Ah.” Lark seems surprised. She averts her gaze. “...that’s... that feels like it was an
eternity ago.”
“It was.” The two lapse into a sweet quiet again, contemplative as Lark no doubt replays
the memory in her own head. Distorted, he’d imagine her version of events to be. He often
wonders how she thinks, how she remembers things. Are they all cast under a hazy grey, just like his own, only the shade is different?
Staring down into the water, he can’t help but see reflections within their dim depths.
Reflections of the buildings and the lights, yes, and of him, but he thinks he can see projections of silk there, visions from that waltz, ghost fish carrying pictures of distant beauty. It’d been a business party, his parents’, and he’d taken her along. They’d danced together, and both of them had just been their own, real selves, and that was it. No tarnishing, no impure additions. An untouched image filled with hope yet stained more so by Lark’s own despair.
Unconsciously, he begins to lean over the edge, reaching out a hand for the water.
Further, further– he can see her back in the ripples, the sheer of the dress, and he wishes to touch that star-strewn image once more, a day of innocence, the last one before it started to get bad again.
What he doesn’t expect is that the boat rocks with his weight, and suddenly, he feels
himself tipping into freefall, more weight over the water than away. And he doesn’t do anything to stop it, he simply holds his breath and shuts his eyes, waiting for the water to hit him and fill him with a murky cool until it doesn’t, and he notices the hand on his shoulder, another on his arm.
He looks up to see Lark staring back at him, her face one of relief. “You dummy. What
would I have done if you’d fallen in?” she teases on a feather-light tone, affectionate. He stares blankly, still stunned as a fish with a cracked-open skull, and her expression buds into one of concern. “Hey, are you okay?” He doesn’t know what she refers to anymore. “Come back to me, Rhodey. You’re alive, after all, aren’t you?”
And at once the world cuts into noisy, saturated, crystal-clear focus. The image of her
soft-edged face before him, her hair a hazy gold, is too bright to be real, surely; but he can hear cars in the distance, the rustle of the river current up close. “...I’m fine.” He doesn’t want to think about it, about the memory that mirrored itself into the water, not when she’s still here and still graced by a streak of youth. “Thank you.”
“It’s kinda funny, really.” She laughs, sitting back and setting her fingers upon the
paddles. “We once promised we’d do that, too, didn’t we?”
Did we? But the memory is already there, ripe in his mind, and he smiles right back at her
just thinking about it.
“We’ll go boating on the Seine, and you’ll catch me when I almost fall into the river.”
“Yeah. We did.”
There’s something about their promises that drags him into the worst of his past, casting
him in a delusional haze. And yet, he isn’t upset with this, sitting in a rowboat with Lark on a river filled with yellow lights.
[Yes, I think I am.]
Angelina Tang is a journalist and author from Western New York. She has received recognition from the Just Buffalo Writing Center as a Youth Fellow and Youth Ambassador, and her work has been published in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She is the self-published author of the novel 'Birds Playing God,' as well as a black belt in Isshin-Ryu Karate and avid advocate for putting as many marshmallows as possible in your hot chocolate.