The Weight of Water

Sarah often caught herself sketching it on napkins, in the margins of bills, sometimes just tracing the outline of it on a fogged-up windowpane. Not *their* cramped kitchen window, mind you, but the window of a house that belonged to her only in stories. Mark's lake house. The one he’d summered in as a boy, up in northern Michigan, a quiet pocket of the world swallowed by ancient pines and the slow, deep breath of freshwater. She’d never set foot on its sun-bleached porch, never felt the splintery wood of its dock under her bare feet, never heard the slap of waves against its pebbled shore, but she knew it. She *felt* it. Like a memory stolen, or perhaps gifted, over years of shared beds and whispered confessions, a phantom limb of her own history.

Their apartment, though, smelled of reheated pasta and the faint, sweet decay of overdue groceries. The radiator clanked a mournful, arthritic tune, especially now, with winter tightening its grip on the city's concrete bones. Mark was still at work, probably stuck in traffic somewhere on the freeway, cursing under his breath in that low, rumbling growl that used to make her laugh, now just part of the background hum of their life, like the drone of the refrigerator. She was sorting laundry, folding his worn-out t-shirts – the ones with the faded band logos and the small, familiar holes near the collar. They still smelled faintly of him, of sweat and aftershave and something else she couldn’t quite name, something uniquely *Mark*, a scent of perseverance.

He’d told her about it, first, late one night when they were still new, still trying to impress each other with tales of their pasts and the people they used to be. His voice, rough with cheap beer and a longing she hadn’t yet understood, painted pictures she could almost touch, taste, hear. The way the light hit the water just before sunset, a molten gold pouring across the surface, reflecting a sky bled pink and orange. The constant, droning buzz of cicadas in the heat-hazed afternoons. His grandma's ancient, chipped ceramic mugs, filled with lukewarm coffee, steaming faintly in the morning chill that crept off the lake. He’d described the old rowboat, painted a peeling, desperate green, that he and his cousins would sneak out in, long after they were supposed to be in bed, fishing for nothing, just drifting, lost in the big, silent water, the stars overhead a thick, unblinking blanket.

"The screen door," he'd said once, his eyes far away, tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. "It always sagged. You had to lift it a little, just so, with your knee, to get it to latch. And when it slammed shut, you knew you were home. You *knew*." She’d imagined the *thwack*, sharp and final, the faint rattle of the frame, a loose screw maybe. She saw the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light that streamed through that very screen, tasting the subtle grit in the air. She felt the cool air from the lake, carrying the sharp scent of pine needles and damp earth, slip through the small gaps, a promise of coolness. It was a visceral thing, this phantom house, a haunting. More real, sometimes, than the peeling paint on their own kitchen wall, or the crooked shelf with their bills stacked precariously.

It became *their* dream, unspoken mostly, but always simmering. A retirement plan scribbled on the backs of envelopes. A someday promise murmured against her hair in the dark. "When we get that lake house," he’d say, not *a* lake house, but *that* one, the one in his head, in her head, fixed and perfect despite its imagined flaws. She’d nod, maybe trace the pattern of freckles on his arm with her finger, a quiet affirmation. It wasn’t about the money, not really, though money was always tight, a thin wire stretching them taut, sometimes to breaking point. It was about a feeling. A slow, easy kind of breathing. A life unfurling itself, uncomplicated by traffic jams and the harsh, unforgiving glare of fluorescent office lights. It was about *home*, the one that hadn't happened yet.

She stacked Mark’s socks, matched them diligently, pulling a few stray threads from the worn heels. One had a small hole near the toe, a tiny dark mouth opening. She sighed, tossed it into the mending basket, already overflowing. Another thing to fix, or just ignore until it became irreparable. The apartment felt smaller tonight, the walls pressing in like a gentle but firm hand. She looked at a framed photo on the dresser – them, five years ago, grinning wide, wind-whipped hair after a hike through some nameless woods. They looked younger, yes, but also… lighter. Less burdened by the small, relentless grind that slowly, imperceptibly, rounded off the sharp edges of youth. Did he still feel it, that insistent pull towards the old lake house? Or had the steady weight of their actual life, the bills, the responsibilities, the daily disappointments, dulled it for him, too? She hoped not. God, she hoped not.

The key scraped in the lock, a familiar metallic shriek. Mark walked in, shoulders slumped, tie loosened, a five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw. He tossed his keys onto the small table by the door, a dull clatter that seemed to punctuate the silence. "Rough one," he grunted, already heading for the fridge, the universal male instinct. She watched him, the tired lines around his eyes, the way he moved, slow and deliberate, like a man carrying a secret weight. "Long day?" she asked, her voice softer than she’d intended, a little frayed at the edges. He just nodded, pulling out a beer, the label sweating. He leaned against the counter, popping the tab. The hiss and subsequent fizz were loud in the suddenly quiet room, a small explosion of release.

"You okay?" she asked, finally, walking towards him, still holding a half-folded t-shirt like a shield.

He took a long, slow swig, the beer disappearing quickly down his throat. "Yeah. Just… this place, you know?" He gestured vaguely around the cramped kitchen, at the piles of mail, the overflowing dish rack. "Gets to me sometimes. Like a cage."

She paused, the t-shirt slipping from her fingers onto the clean laundry pile. "I know." Her voice was barely a whisper.

He looked at her then, really looked, his eyes meeting hers, a shared exhaustion there, but something else too, a flicker. The beer bottle paused halfway to his lips. "Thinking about it, huh?"

She didn't have to ask what "it" was. "Always." A truth.

He walked over to her, set the beer down with a soft thud, and pulled her into him, burying his face in her hair. She could smell the stale office air on him, the faint exhaust fumes from his commute, but underneath it all, that familiar, reassuring Mark smell, a mix of skin and history. "Remember that old willow by the water?" he murmured against her scalp, his voice rough. "Used to sit under it for hours, just watching the frogs jump. You could hear 'em croaking all night, a big chorus."

She closed her eyes, and there it was, the imagined dappled light filtering through the leaves, the drone of invisible insects, the cool damp earth beneath her, the rhythmic *ribbit-ribbit* of the frogs. She felt it, sharp and real, the ache of a memory that wasn’t even hers, but felt as deeply ingrained as her own childhood.

"We'll get there, someday," she whispered, not just to him, but to the memory of that place, to the quiet hum of their shared, unlived dream. He just squeezed her tighter, a silent promise. His hand found hers, intertwined their fingers. And in the cramped, dust-speckled kitchen, with the clatter of the radiator fading, for a fleeting, impossible moment, she could almost hear the distant slap of lake water against a weathered dock, and the far-off call of a loon. It was a good sound to sleep on.