The Northern Whale: Part One

You lived a summer of songs. You arrived at the island at half past four on June 1st; you arrived on the back of a great big whale. I remember it well. You were soaked from head to foot and you stumbled blindly because you could not see through the specks of water that had taken up residence on your glasses. The thick brown frames were charming on your thin long face.

And you said: it’s awfully wet out there.

I watched you settle onto your set and wanted to laugh and say, that’s because it’s the ocean and you were on a whale, not in a submarine. But instead

I said: yeah..tea, coffee…?

You smiled at me like you’d read my eyes, and then turned towards the window. You were so captivated by the world on the other side of the glass that I wondered why you bothered to leave it in the first place, and I wondered why you decided to come into the shop, but most of all I wondered whether it was tea or coffee you wanted. I hoped tea because I preferred it, myself.

You said: Does it rain like this often? It sure is coming down hard..black tea, please, no milk or sugar.

I didn’t move to speak or prepare your tea right away because I was drunk on the impossible future. I didn’t take milk or sugar in my tea, either and the combination of your yellow paisley scarf and tweed suit was making me giddy or dizzy or

I said: hm..oh yes, it rains. Yes..I like your suit, it’s brown like your glasses…but um..lighter.

And I stumbled while fixing your tea and spilled water all over the counter. I felt hurried and stupid. I remember you just smiled, shy, and even blushed a little. You tried to help me clean the mess with your napkin but it was too far from your reach, despite the length of your bony and bonewhite fingers. I could tell by your nails that you played guitar. You asked my name and I lied. I asked yours and

You said: Patrick.

But that summer I would always call you Molly, though neither of us knew why, and you’d always call me by a lie.