“Once, years ago. I remember it being really cool. They must have good places to camp. Maybe we can get a spot where we can fall asleep listening to the waves.” I realize immediately how what I just said must sound. “Not like, we as in we’d be sleeping in the same place or whatever. I mean, yeah, we’d be in the same place generally. Like the same vicinity; same part of the world. I meant—” Bail out! Bail out!
Sylvie watches me stammer with a bemused smile. “I knew what you meant. I like the way you think.”
“Okay. Cool. Yeah.” My face is hot(ter) and red(der).
“I trust the process.”
“I won’t try to sell you on it,” I say.
We smile at each other goofily.
“By the way,” she says, making a campground reservation on her phone, “on this leg of the trip be forewarned that I’m going to make you listen to Taylor Swift while I sing along really loudly.”
We sling our bags over our shoulders and start to leave. Outside, a pair of tween girls are fawning over Winslow and letting him lick their hands.
“Hang on,” I tell Sylvie.
“What?”
“I think I see another piece of lint in your hair.”
Sylvie
“Eagle eyes over here,” I say breezily. But this time, when Knox reaches out to touch me, I’m not brave enough to shut my eyes.
Sylvie Balance
Knox sleeps all the way downstate, and I worry a bit
until I remember that his body’s still healing.
Watch his inhale, exhale, match it, watch
the mile markers stream by to the time
of our breathing. I put on some quiet Bach
because it makes my mind feel organized,
reminds me of discipline, hours spent practicing
those inventions at the piano, lost to it—at the Indiana border
I sit up, calm now. Temptation to test the feeling,
interrogate it, fret that it’ll pass. Maybe it’ll stay,
sure and strong as this boy beside me. Outside a station wagon
keeps our pace, looks like a bird tucking in
its wings. I notice myself noticing it. The sleepy Chevys,
the reflective Rest Area signs, the world
washing in and over me. Knox snores, I laugh,
the Bach ticks on. Contrapunctus: