The fountain was deep in the heart of the woods.
Your fingers poked the water
I stare out to the storm-brewed sea; dare myself not to blink. My drink arrives. I watch the ripples on its surface settle.
and beneath the surface there were coins: a mildewy layer of forgotten wishes on stone so
They said you’d thrown your own coin in and changed your mind. They said it was a wish gone wrong. But wishes don’t work like that.
you stood on tippy toes, dipped your ear into liquid, listening for sibilant whispers; toppled gently over…
You shake your head. My hand is shaking. Ice clinks glass.
…you climbed up, the dark and cold black-backed jackals creeping closer.
Slip.
I sip.
You bobbed and ducked and splashed, blowing bubbles as you sank, hair fanned behind you: baby Ophelia floating silent.
Not on your back. Face down.
My hand slams, involuntary. Glass shatters across the smooth surface of the bar. You shake your head, eyes glittering.
My pudgy hand behind your head and then lies and lies and lies which dripped off my tongue like tar and spread forever after.
I search for your face in shards of glass, for forgiveness in the fragments. Your image pixelates.
Outside, I listen to waves peppering stones with kisses; hear the siren call, see myself reflected in the rippling swell: all teeth and claws and furrowed face. There is no hesitation. Hesitation means a choice, and a choice means a different possible ending and there is only one ending, and it looks like this: like a woman walking forwards, huddled in a greatcoat, walking forwards, adorned with a frown as heavy as a secret held so close to your chest it stops your breath, walking forwards into the wild dark sea.
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