Until Tuesday — Nine

Ian Turnell

I lunge forward, gasping for air. That’s when I realize I’m flat-backed within a shallow pool of water. My head is pounding and I feel the onset of vomit approaching. The only real estate of skin not in pain is the spot below my nose.

The sun is shining brightly through the foliage above me. I can’t believe I’m still alive.

I roll to my side in an attempt to stand; the pain overwhelms me, and the heaves begin, only intensifying the pain while mitigating my balance.

My second attempt, more successful, gets me vertical and I make my way to the water's edge.

I can’t remember where I am, but clearly recall the look I received before attempting to descend the stairs. I feel very much the prey, and not captured for love or companionship.

If only that kiss were genuine.