Into the Grey

The sky was still grey when we walked to the water, each carrying the things we thought we would need. You with your microscope and your notebooks, me with my books. More than one, because who knew what mood the day might bring?

I loved your strong, narrow back flexing as you passed the paddle left, then right, then left, as we paddled into the mist. We paddled into the grey, and with you it seemed rosy.

We stopped on the opposite shore, onto the solid ground surrounding the bay. We pulled the canoe high onto the pebble beach and clambered, barefoot, into the woods above.

I built the treehouse before you came. It was my retreat from the city and its noise and its business and expectations. It was my secret, until you appeared and it became ours.

The sun rose languidly as we picked through leaves and beetle frass for you to dissect under your microscope. The light was just beginning to peek above the mountains as we climbed, first one ladder, then another, high into the canopy. Until we could see the sprawl of Channel Bay stretched out to the south, and dense forest to the north, and mountains to the east. To the west, as far as we could see, was water.

The morning mist made one last pass through our perch on its way out to sea, and then we were alone in our treehouse with nothing but the treetops and the brightening blue sky.

The rhythm has become familiar: you peering at your samples, picking apart their anatomy. Sketching, the scritching of your pencil loud in the morning calm. Gradually drowned out by the calling of birds and the swishing of the trees as the day warms. This far from the ground, the gentle rocking of the trees is pronounced. You were afraid at first, when you realized how widely the trees could wave, but now you barely notice. You interrupt my reading, sometimes, to exhort me to look at some strange veination, and I sometimes read a compelling line out loud. Sometimes we look up, not saying a word, just to look at one another. This quiet communion is our favorite way to while away the summer days.

The sun reached its zenith, and the humid coastal air warmed our bodies until we were stretched out across the floor to let the breeze blow through the slats and cool our sweat-soaked skin. We lay, fingertips touching, until we could stand it no longer and descended to the ground to dip into the cool water of the bay. The waves bobbed us up and down as we swam and splashed each other, laughing. And then you you gallantly carried me, naked and dripping wet, back to the ladder when I bemoaned the return hike.

When we were once more in the treetops we lay, your head on my chest and my arms tangled with yours. Our indolence was so profound that even eating or drinking seemed too great an effort. I loved the smell of your salty skin and the way the light flickered through the gaps in the canopy. The light was all around us colored green by the leaves, and we soaked in the humid green air, reveling in the fact of our existence.

Eventually we worked up the energy to move. You asked me to read to you, so I read aloud from my book as you pretended to sketch a dragonfly wing but in fact sketched me, shy and peeking up through my eyelashes at you while pretending not to notice how little you referenced your microscope slide.

We were still at this quiet game when a sound from below startled me from my book. I looked out to the south – to the city in the bay – and saw their boat touching onto our beach. They pulled it onto the pebbles next to ours. I turned to you, startled, but your face betrayed no emotion. You carefully packed your microscope and slides without speaking a word, and only when you finished did you meet my gaze.

Did you know? That they were coming for you? Had you been waiting for this? For weeks I had been dreading the letter that would tell us you had been denied, that you would have to leave, and leave me here alone. I understood then that the letter had already come, and that you had hidden it from me.

Did you know that this would be your last day? I wanted to ask. I wanted to shout, but your awful calm held me in its thrall. I was quiet as you gently brushed my hair back from my eyes, as you kissed me goodbye. We both were quiet. I held the trapdoor for you as you climbed down the ladders to meet the people waiting on the ground. I watched you as you descended. You didn't look up.

I watched you as you emerged with them onto the beach, as they pulled their boat back into the water and you climbed in. You didn't look back. Your back was narrow and straight as they led you across the water, and you didn't once turn around.

I waited for hours. I waited until the sky turned rose, then ash, before I descended into the grey twilight. Our canoe waited, your paddle still canted across your seat the way you always left it, your sandals still wedged into the bow, unused.

I pushed our canoe across the grey pebble beach and into the dark water, and as I crossed the mist came slowly creeping back, insensible and smothering. I tell you, I wanted to disappear into that grey mist. I could already feel it seeping into me.