See them

Do you see them? They are women. There are twelve of them sat in a circle laughing so loudly some of them have dropped what they were holding. Miniature white boards clatter to the floor - the one with chestnut hair is suddenly back in first grade, sitting on the cold linoleum floor of Ms. White’s classroom; she has been shoved off the zoo animal carpet by Michael H. She doesn’t mind, however, because she is better than him and she has the right answer. She holds her little board high enough in the air so that her full face and beaming smile remain visible through the frame of her upper arms. How excellent, young lady, that you are already so gifted at blending your letters: green, grit, gross. Yesterday it was blue, black, bleed.

Here is how the game works. Each starts by drawing a nose or an eyebrow or a limb of choice. She passes to the left and the next player adds on. The boards go around the circle until twelve hideous monsters stare back at them, stitched together from all the ugly parts they remember from the men they have loved. The women invented it, cobbled it together from other versions they remembered. One says she played dirty pictionary in college, another says telephone but with drawings. They are hysterical; there are tears running down cheeks in pain from all the laughing. The eldest amongst them wipes under her eyes with each forefinger and then turns to her left and runs her thumbs up the face of the woman sitting next to her. Realizing her hands are too wet from her own tears to dry her neighbor’s, she bursts into a new fit of laughter and soon they are all begging for it to stop. They have never been this happy.

If you wait in silence for a while you will see them gather their limbs and begin to move about the wood cabin again as their laughter subsides. A small woman with long black hair collects the boards and wipes them with a cloth while humming to herself. The youngest of all knows the song; she rests her chin on the shoulder of her friend and sings along, watches her work. Her jaw vibrates in a funny way against the woman’s bones but she doesn’t mind the feeling. The others step outside to watch the sun go down over the lake. The sky is pink but the smog has gone thanks to them; this is how they see it. The one with red hair and bangs that have begun to grow out lopsided as of late slips out of her garment, takes three steps forward and dives into the water. She is always the one to start up; they tease her and say it is because she is the only redhead and so she is crazy.

Now you have no choice but to hear the shock of their splashing bodies pop and echo across the lake. You cannot help but notice the small rapture left behind on the shore, ten discreet piles of crumpled fabric; nobody has folded. You will have to pay better attention as they spread apart in the falling darkness. If you are keen enough you might be able to glimpse a breast or a kneecap surface for a moment before getting swallowed once again. As much as you might try you will never hear their sighs of pleasure and delight above the rubbing of male cricket wings. An occasional lantern fly sheds a momentary golden glow. You have never, will never, find an image more beautiful than this.

You are probably too distracted by this singular beauty to realize that the other two who stayed inside have emerged from whatever occupied them for the last half hour or so. They know their friends, and they have begun to make a fire, because these women will stay in the water until they are all shades of grey and shaking and chattering and every cell is telling them to just give in already. Give in, they do, running lightly on their toes to reach the fire, which makes them spit and crackle as they dry. They dress in silence and quickly. If you were the flames, you would see twelve peaceful expressions contemplating your form night after night and never getting bored of what you have to offer. You would strike them with such awe that they begin to pull themselves away only when their eyes start to flutter and their chins begin to dip without their consent. You would wish them a good night’s sleep one by one until only the redhead and the one with chestnut hair remain by your side.

“Do you really think we did it?”

A sigh. “You can ask me another thousand times and my answer will be the same. Yes, I think so.”

“Where are the others?”

“Away somewhere, like us. Across the North.”

“I wanted children.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Did you ever? You don't talk about it.”

“Sometimes yes. Mostly no. I was afraid, because of this.”

“You were right.”

“We were all right. You’re here, too. And braver than me - you wanted something else.”

“I am happy, you know.”

“Good. I really don’t know what I could do if you weren’t.”

“Will you stay out here with me tonight?”

Now that the others have gone to bed, there is no doubt that your one and only focus becomes these two women deciding how to lie down together after what has just been said. Side by side, they lean their heads towards each other, their necks bending in a way that will hurt in the morning. You have to squint now, because only embers remain in the fire. In the dark they reach for the hand of the other. You can see the stars from here.