“That isn’t real,” you insisted.
“But the book is based on a true story. It says it is.”
“That isn’t real.”
“Still, it freaked me out. Walk me home?”
“Of course. But that isn’t real.”
You pedaled your bike home a little faster that night. The Mothman Prophecies, real or not, had gotten under your skin, just as it had gotten under mine.
We spent most evenings together during that scorching Pensacola summer. You’d bring a sack full of baguettes from the bakery dumpster near your house, I’d splurge on 49¢ Faygo (cola for me, grape for you) and we’d follow the train tracks over the bridge to a small beach that overlooked the bay. The water gently ebbed and flowed around our ankles as we laid in the sand, searching for the UFOs that were often spotted in the skies above neighboring Gulf Breeze.
That’s how we stumbled upon the meteor shower. 100 per hour, at the peak. There were no words to describe the magic of being on that secluded beach with stars falling all around us-- in the sky, but in the water too-- so we laid in silence that was broken only by the whistle of the train, as it rushed along the tracks above our heads.
The wind from the train whipped through the humidity and rustled the leaves of the bushes behind us, startling you. You hoped I wouldn’t notice, but when you turned your head to look at me I grinned and squeezed your hand a little harder.
“The Mothman isn’t real,” I teased. Still, that night, we walked home a little faster, stealing looks over our shoulders.
No comments:
Post a Comment