The Pisces(32)

“What about you? What’s your story?” I asked.

“Oh God, I hate my story,” said Theo.

“I bet you have a great story.”

“What do you want to know, exactly?” he asked. He was treading water a little faster now. I caught a glint of his wet suit under the waves.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Around here,” he said.

“So cryptic,” I said. “Are you aware of death?”

Asking that, I felt kind of creepy in a good way. He had a lot of power in not revealing too much of himself. Just that lack of willingness to disclose—that’s all it took for me to perceive rejection. So this gave me a little edge. Also, his observation about me and death could have been a bit scary if he wasn’t so matter-of-fact. I mean, he was a stranger, male, and likely stronger than me. He could easily pull me off a rock into the water and drown me. But I trusted him completely—at least in terms of my physical safety. And now that he had complimented me about my proximity to death and I had owned it, and thrown it right back at him, I felt cool. We had both decided now that death was my territory. I was the Professor of Death. Much more than a middle-aged woman who was beginning to get serious crushy feelings for a young stranger in the water.



“I know about death,” he said.

“Have you ever seen someone die?” I asked. “Like up close and one-on-one?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have watched a number of people die.”

“Scary, right? The dying process. I don’t feel scared about death but dying freaks me the fuck out.”

“I’m not scared of dying,” he said.

“You’re not?”

Now he was the professor and I was the pussy.

“I would say I’m less scared of dying than I am of life.”

Actually, I maybe agreed with him.

“I think I’m equally scared of both,” I said.

This was the truth. It felt good to say it.

“What is it about dying that scares you the most? Are you afraid of having regrets?”

“No,” I said. “I think it’s literally the physical process. Like, the suffocation. I’m so scared to be suffocating and panicking. I get panicked even when I go to the dentist. I am not good with discomfort. So I think I’m more scared of the discomfort—my own fear around it—than anything else.”

“It might be scary for a moment,” he said. “Maybe for a few minutes. But then, from what I’ve seen, you are very free.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s the fear before the freedom that I’m scared of. If I could just go to sleep—just like that, go to sleep and never wake up—I would do that anytime. I would do it tonight. But I’m scared to be conscious while it’s happening.”



“I had that feeling about you. That you would be happy to just go to sleep.”

“Why? Because I’m so boring?”

“Not at all,” he said. “The opposite. But I can feel you’ve suffered.”

He was so dramatic.

“Yeah, well, life is the dumbest,” I said, standing up.

“I’ve suffered too,” he said. “I’ve been sick.”

This piqued my interest.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I have stomach problems, terrible stomach cramps. Problems with my bowel. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

The word bowel made me giggle.

“What kind of problems?” I said. “Like you can’t go or you go too much?”

“Both,” he said. “It depends on the day.”

“I’m sorry I’m laughing. I know it’s not funny. But it’s weird talking about this with a stranger.”

“We all do it, you know.”

“I know. Have you ever accidentally gone in your wet suit?”

Now I was laughing so hard that tears formed in the corners of my eyes. He was grinning and treading water.

“That’s privileged information,” he said. “I feel like we’re not intimate enough to go that far.”

“Ah, okay, I understand. Good that you have your limits,” I said.

“I don’t, it’s just—we would need to be more close for me to disclose something like that,” he said, smirking.

“What would be more close?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Like if I had touched you before or something.”

I felt surprised. I don’t know why I am always surprised when a man is attracted to me. Maybe because he was so beautiful and young. But I guess it made sense. Why else was he hanging around these rocks?



“Do you want to touch me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Where do you want to touch me?” I said coyly.

He swam over to the edge of my rock. I suddenly felt nervous.

“Hmmmmm,” he said. “Would you let me touch your ankle?”

“My ankle?” I laughed.

“Yeah, your ankle.”

“Okay,” I said. “You can touch my ankle.”

He ceremoniously lifted one hand, wiggled his fingers like a pianist, and gave my calf a little squeeze. I laughed. Then, he lightly cupped my ankle and massaged it gently, looking up at me. I stopped laughing. Slowly, he ran two fingers up and down the middle of my foot bone. He pressed each of the toes, one by one, and made his way around to the back where he gently massaged my Achilles tendon.