“No,” I said, a moment too late. “I trust you.”
I did.
After releasing all thoughts of what could be lurking underneath the unstable boat, I found peace in the day. I dug in my bag and applied sunscreen to the both of us— he never felt he needed it, but I did it anyway. He always let me; he just enjoyed my hands on his body, he’d told me once or twice.
He had small, dark patches on his chest from the sun, close to freckles but not, just darker pigments. I found them sensual and took extra time to glide my hands along his skin.
After the administrations were complete, I sat back in my seat, rubbing the leftover cream into my hands, and then took the suffocating boots off my feet. The hot air and moisture had created a sauna inside. Once they were off, I felt free, and I wiggled my toes in appreciation.
A light breeze rippled over the water, and the brim of my hat waved. “Oh, that feels nice,” I almost cooed.
Brando laughed. “We’re going to find a spot in the shade. Your face is flushed, and we’re just getting started.”
I waved a hand, dismissing the flush. I had cool drinks in my bag for this reason.
In direct sunlight, the bayou shimmered almost green, close to the color of the algae floating on top of the water like sea foam. Lining our path were banks made of sweet, fragrant grass, and the towering forms of water cypresses.
Some of them stood tall, their roots firmly planted under the water, their boughs kowtowing to gravity. Their fine leaves were as still as the water. All that was left of others were their stumps, some flat, some in jagged points, a resting place for an egret or two, or a heron with all-white plumes, long, stick legs, and a bill to match. Just like the oaks, I knew some of these cypresses could’ve been here for hundreds of years.
“Imagine all of the secrets they keep,” I whispered to Brando.
I didn’t have to explain to him what I meant, because his mind seemed to have drifted to a similar place.
“Now we’re one of them.” He grinned at me.
I gave him a lazy smile back before digging in my bag for cool water. I handed him one and took one for myself. Against the heat, it was manna.
Brando put the paddle down, drinking half of the bottle in one go, and we drifted on his momentum for a few minutes. We didn’t seem to have a direction. If we did, he didn’t say, but his eyes worked over the place.
Just out of pure curiosity, I put my hand on top of the water, skimming its tepid existence.
“Keep your hand in the boat, baby,” Brando said, sticking the paddle underneath my fingers.
Fear crossed my face in the moody reflection before I pulled my hand up. “Why? Will an alligator take it off?”
“Doubtful. A snake is a bigger possibility.”
I knew that too. Cottonmouth snakes (water moccasins) shared these waters with the alligators and other creepy crawlies, most of which probably came out at night—smarter than us—to avoid heat stroke.
“Right,” I said, and drank down more fresh water. “How would it have been for people who came before us?” I waved the bottle around. “Coming here from someplace else, not knowing a damn thing about these waters or the dangers in them and around them. That must’ve been something.”
“I’m sure they had to learn fast. If not—” he lifted one arm, using it to wipe sweat from his brow “—I suppose their time here was short. If it’s wild now, it was savage back then. No hospitals or snake venom.”
“Perhaps it became wild because of the people stomping on its back all of the time.”
“Nah, this place has always been wild. Even so, there’s a draw to it.”
“Yes,” I muttered, letting my eyes close. “There is.”
The sun was an orange glow against black behind my eyelids, and the sound of the paddle was almost hypnotizing, a rhythmicswoosh,swoosh.
One egret called to another, a sound that reminded me of a snore. Other birds were near too, chirping and clacking their beaks. Sometimes all I heard was the flight of their feathers as their shadows passed over my closed lids, streaking through the orange flame for a second.
An occasional mosquito whined around, or a fly buzzed, but the repellent seemed to be working. I’d wave my hand and, as if by magic, the irritant would move on, in search of someone who smelled better and didn’t swat at it.
Among the scents of still water and rotting flora was the livelier scent of honeysuckle and the spicier scent of the saturated wood from the underside of the boat. It wasn’t unpleasant, only different.
Heat was a drug, I decided, and while my captain navigated these waters, I let myself drift aimlessly as though I were swimming. A thought refused to float through my mind, not until the glow behind my lids seemed to fade some, and the temperature didn’t seem as imposing.
