A Metamorphosis
by Amanda Crum
The lake was dark and cold.
He stood ankle-deep, watching her swim out. She
dove under once, her bare bottom shining in the
moonlight like a beacon, and resurfaced with a splash and
a laugh; the cold didn’t bother her. It was the heat she
couldn’t stand, said it made breathing hard.
When she got to where the water hit her waist, she
stopped and stood up, leaving her back to him. Her
shoulder blades arched and curved into ragged angel-wing
shadows as she moved her hands lightly across the surface
of the water. He imagined her digging her toes into the
soft silt below. The lake was hers, same as her favorite
coffee mug or the constellation of freckles on her right
thigh. It didn’t matter that they’d been staying at the cabin
for less than a week. She and it had found one another.
It wasn’t the place he would have chosen to get to
know her. Black trees grew out of the water some fifty
yards out, reaching withered fingers toward the moon. He
counted five of them, standing silent sentry. Watching.
He waded in deeper, trying not to wince at the
cold, and made his way to her. Weeping willows circled the
lake, dipping their branches into the water here and there.
The wind woke their leaves in a hushed flurry, sending a
shiver through him. Halloween was a week away.
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