Dusk was falling as we made our way across the train trestle. Late June, a cool evening-- but in Idaho, we always pretend it's warmer than it is. His battered guitar thumped against his back as he nervously jumped to each rail tie, high above the river's swirling rapids. Bubbleland: we hadn't named it, believe it or not, but the whimsical name of this secluded fishing spot made it too enticing.
Odd that I'd come with this boy. And that's what he was, a boy, lanky and blushing, his unkempt white-blonde hair more suitable for a toddler than a kid of 17. I felt mature beside him... no older in years, but already, I thought, a woman. I stepped easily across the bridge, swinging the army duffle we'd brought.
When we were on solid ground, he grinned in abashed relief and said, "Let's go swimming."
"Are you sure? It looks cold." And it was. This river was fed by mountain glaciers, and June in Idaho is by no means summer. I breathed deep; the air smelled of ice and sage. I shivered.
"Yep. Give me my suit." We rummaged through the bag for our swimming suits. "I won't look," he stammered, reddening fiercely. I shrugged-- I'd never been shy-- and he turned his back while I dressed. He turned around, his oversized shorts hanging loosely--tenderly-- on his hips. He looked at me-- and yes, I know how I looked. My suit was deceptively, deliciously modest, an innocent print of red gingham that contrasted sharply with the curves and cleavage. And suddenly, I did feel shy, more naked than when I'd been nude a moment before.
I swirled a toe in the water. "You're crazy," I said.
"Yep," and he waded in. We swam for a while as night fell slowly, the vast sky melting to lavender.
"Don't get out yet, I'll grab you a towel," he said. His pale skin glowed against the darkness, and I shook my head, wondering vaguely once again how I'd come to be here. He dried off, slung the guitar over his shoulder, and waded toward me. He handed me a towel and nodded towards a flat rock protruding from the water. "Sit."
I climbed on the rock; water dripped from my hair and pooled in the rock's crevices. He sat cross-legged facing me, settled the tired guitar in his lap, and began to play. His adolescent awkwardness waned. Damn, that boy could sing. I knew he was singing for me, about me, and I thought, "Forget money, or manliness, or maturity... I want your words." His eyes were closed and his face was truth and I thought to lean and kiss him. My lips would meet his mid-lyric, and perhaps he would continue singing, and I would swallow his words and they would fill me.
But the song ended, the moment ended, and we sat in silence. Finally, without a word, we rose and waded back to shore. I pulled my clothes on over my wet suit, and followed him through the darkness to the bridge. I watched as he stepped carefully from railroad tie to railroad tie, and thought how easily he could slip through the cracks.
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