Liquid Smoke

FIFTY-THREE

Flashbulbs kept going off in my head, showing me snapshots I didn’t know I’d taken.

Liz and me in high school, talking in the hallway. She was a year older than me. She was telling me she wanted to interview me for the paper. I said okay.

Then she was yelling at me. We were in a parking lot. She was furious with me, and I was yelling back at her.

We were in her office. She was pointing a finger at me.

We were sitting on her deck, drinking beer. I could see her legs in the dark.

I was driving the Jeep. Liz was sitting next to me. We were on the 101, the sun setting to our left.

We were in her bed. She was on top of me, sweating, our eyes locked as we moved together.

Then we were in the ocean. I was yelling something across the water to her. My voice was coming out of my mouth, but I couldn’t make out what I was saying. She was coming toward me, the water splashing around her legs as she got closer.

I was still talking, but I couldn’t hear the words.

And then she was gone, and I was standing in the ocean by myself, still saying whatever I’d been saying, turning around in circles, looking for her.