It’s easy to imagine the fingers under the water. The pale arms outstretched, the fingertips softly touching the bank, just out of sight. The water throws shadows around within itself – you think you’ve got a glimpse, but it could be something or nothing.
Her hair, in long ribbons under the water, would float with the ebb and flow, disturbed now and then, weightless and drifting, as small silver fish dart by her face.
That beautiful face at rest, no more lines to be Botoxed out, no furrowing of the brow. I look for her very pale face when I come here at night. If she lies face up, I think her skin would be so luminous you could see her from space, or mistake her for a reflection of the moon. So she must, I think, be lying face down.
Sometimes, when the loneliness is so overpowering it feels like a malevolent ghost is peering over my shoulder, I dip my hands into the water and try to feel if she is there. I haven’t found her yet, but I feel close to her just the same.
It’s easier to think that she came in here, with rocks in her pockets stretching the lining of her coat, that dark blue one she loved so much, the one I bought her. That she shut her eyes and walked and walked until the water touched her knees. That when it came up past her thighs, she sank forward and let herself drift, taking one last breath and disappearing with a small sigh.
It’s easier to think of that than to admit that she left me. That she could have packed her things in the middle of the night and vanished without a trace. Gone.