He sat on the edge of the pier, waiting, his feet dangling barely two feet above the black. The moon, the cliché that it was, reflected across the gentle ripples of the bay. No clouds. Barely a breeze. The moon and its reflection supplementing only the single streetlight behind.
His mind was everywhere. It darted. No. Not the right word. Lingered for moments, maybe, on some thing or another thing, only to shift half-heartedly to the next. A phrase of some song melded seamlessly into a snippet of a conversation from months ago into the way he wished the conversation had gone and then back into the song.
From the passenger seat as you were driving me home.
"Do they collide?" he said aloud. I ask, and you smile, the song replied. A gentle piano continued, and he closed his eyes and listened.
Sometimes he would look down at the black black bay, and at his flip flops so precariously held to his feet by some friction and a single, tiny rubber strap. Well, two. One per foot. It doesn't matter. Every glance at the black water below, going down God knows how far, sent a shudder up his body. The idea of a sandal falling in...
I mean. Of course he wouldn't go in after it. Of course he wouldn't reflexively lunge for his falling footwear and end up off the pier. Of course he wouldn't go in.
The thought, for just seconds at a time every few minutes, when his shift-lingering mind would return to his sandals dangling over the black - the thought of a sandal falling off of his foot and floating on the surface - the thought terrified him. And he would sometimes even pull his legs up for a moment and sit cross-legged and be an "Indian-style" coward for a bit. But he would invariably close his eyes and breathe slowly and his heartbeat would slow, and the calm.
Would come.
And he would gently uncross his legs and dangle his feet again, and his mind would find another something to linger upon.
"Do they collide?" he said aloud again. I ask, and you smile, the song continued. He closed his eyes again, and putting his hands on the pavement behind him, he leaned back, his head toward the sky. My feet on the dash.
"The world doesn't matter," he said.
The piano continued, and he let it go.
