Frog Light

Led by the dim glow of eggs on a post-it, I foot forward into the ink. What I outlined, by necessity, was the stage of divers moments, any of which would sink me by contrast were some oaf to flick the lights on. My strategy was transference: imperilling my toes to protect my h—. (For the books, I was twice stubbed, each foot, slight elation on the second.) I twisted the cold. The accompanying rush rang instantly familiar—I had not anticipated that. Then: a small figure by the sink, splashing softly, spied from the threshold; then a rushing, surging, plunging feeling. One moment I was at I'm All Right, the next, I was underwater, the room a dark, shimmering green. I prayed a kind soul would press repeat.

Sally-Anne mislit her cigarette for the fourth time. Her face was everything strangers wanted: soft, sexy, lit. And she spoke with confidence, never doubling back. She met my eyes and I almost smiled. The lighter stuck somewhere in the bushes.
"Got a match?"
"Not this time," I said. Ha.
She turned away and I began throwing pieces of scrunched-up serviette at the back of her head. Most dropped short, but I got a couple of pleasing hits in. Whenever she turned to confront me, I would stare blankly back at her, as if incapable of reading emotion. Then I would throw a piece of scrunched-up serviette at her face. 

I sat backwards on my chair, peering over the brim like a child would. Each male passer-by I marked as my successor and glowered at. But I harboured no ill feeling. Where weeping my gratitude was concerned, I was far from finished. Sally-Anne called my name sharply and I swung around. For once, she seemed to be looking at me for what I was. I had seen that look before—this time I encouraged it. I shifted, feeling the heat. I was wearing the wrong T-shirt for this kind of weather, but it was the worst I could find.