A Rowboat in the Clouds

I was annoyed when he asked me to come out in the boat with him today. At first, I was adamant that I didn’t have time to sit and talk. I didn’t have the time to sit and listen to him drone on about his mother, his poor handwriting, and sometimes his father or siblings, but somehow, he convinced me.

Now, after I’ve been sitting here for at least an hour, listening to his many musings about his mother, the only thing that I’ve found to console my frayed nerves are the wisps of cloud that curl around my fingertips as I dip my hand over the bow of the boat.

We’ve had this boat for years now, it was a wedding gift. Made out of a light type of wood, I don't know the name, it floats like a feather through the air. The matte cream paint on the outside stark against the blue sky. The inside is a worn sage color that begs me to brush the soft pale pink of my dress along its edges. It’s a beautiful boat, and maybe that’s why he convinced me to come with him today. Purely out of my love for its whimsy.

I would like to think that my acceptance of the outing was born of my love for him as well, but my childish notions of romance have long since faded after I was introduced to my everyday life. We get along, I should not complain, but it’s gotten to the point where I can only recognize each and every flaw within his character, none of which he tries to remedy, so I typically choose not to respond to his many comments about our life and his mother and my mother and his lack of hobbies.

Instead, I choose to sit and imagine my life as whatever I would like it to be that day, which is more than enough to satisfy my cravings for fulfillment.

We haven’t gone out in the boat in quite months because the weather has been honest and upsetting, pushing me inside ugly gray walls and stale-smelling air. No, out here, floating above it all, the air is fresh and new. Yes, the sun is quite hot, but there is one thing he certainly never fails to do for me, he always brings me an umbrella.

I told him he shouldn’t wear his overcoat today because the weather is too warm, but he refused to listen and I can now see the beads of sweat on his neck and forehead, threatening to spill over his collar. He’s very handsome, and perhaps that's why I fell so deeply in love with him at the time of our engagement. I can still recognize the beauty of him now, in the prominence of his cheekbones and the earnestness of his eyes.

I’ve caught him in a rare moment of quiet while I stare at him, and a small part of me hopes that he’s analyzing my own features, reminding himself why he fell so deeply in love with me.

Nevertheless, I was the one who had to be convinced to come with him today, so I can’t expect much in return.

Once I turn my attention away from him, he starts on again, about his mother and his proficiency at piano. But I feel more content now, because the sky outside the short walls of the boat has faded into a molten pink and orange, lending itself to the doting nature of dusk. It’s such a privilege to be able to appreciate the vastness of the sky — of the territory below space and above the earth.

Sometimes I like to lay my umbrella aside and tilt my head back, imagining what it would be like to float farther and farther up into the heavens and most likely suffocate once I get too high. This isn’t something I dream of, it’s just an innate fascination, something that makes the blood ease quicker through my chest.

I’m not sure that he ever considers things like that, I’m not sure he even slows down enough to feel the subtleness of us drifting through the air, or notice the birds that swoop by.

From our perch up here in the sky, it’s hard not to feel like a goddess, lording over her subjects below, fascinating her suitors with her abject beauty. Not that I would want that power, no, power like that would be a terrible thing for me. I wouldn’t do well with deciding the fates of others, I’m far too critical and impulsive, and I fear that getting everything I ever wanted would make me drunk on my abilities to please myself and others, ultimately sending me into a pit of despair.

No, my meaning in life, for the time being, is to come out with him on the boat and fantasize about my life while I stare out our front window and listen to him talk about his mother.

On the subject of his mother, I actually quite like her, I only dislike his fascination with her and his obsession with how she made him the way he is now. It wasn’t always like this, his continuous talk and inability to take breaths between sentences, hurrying to get the thoughts out of his crammed head.

He used to be much quieter when we met, more of a thinker, as much of a thinker as he had ever set out to be. I liked this about him, the comfortability he had with our silences.

He catches my attention when he sits down and settles into the seat opposite me. He reaches out his hand and brushes his thumb along the light chiffon draped over my knees.

It takes me a moment to notice his now repeated silence, but once I do, it’s like nectar sweetening the tip of my tongue and dripping down my throat. We stare at each other as we drift through the sky, my fingers still set along the bow of the boat, trailing through the clouds.

We sit in wonder of our surroundings, more together than I’ve felt in years, until I feel something slight hit the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows furrow before he looks up above us, his features facing an ocean of air until a raindrop plops into the middle of his forehead. I watch the drop as it bounces and skitters down his skin. I hear the joy in my voice as I begin to laugh and the small exhales from his mouth as his hair starts to get damp. He leans forward to pull me towards him and into his chest while I stare out over his shoulder, watching the rain as it really starts to fall and drown us in the sky.