“It isn’t mine,” she said. “It must be yours.”

“I just told you it isn’t,” he said.

“Well.” She pressed her face into the pillow, muffling her repetition: “It isn’t mine.”

He stood over her, one hand on his hip, the other dangling the book in front of him. “It’s girly stuff—fairy tales or something. Not my bag.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled.

“Aren’t you getting up?” He prodded her with the corner of the book. “You’ve been asleep for two hours.”

She swatted him away without opening her eyes.

“Come on,” he said, using his free hand to tweak her nipple.

“Stop!” she said to the pillow.

“Up.”

One eye opened and swiveled up to look at him.

“You look murderous,” he said, and began to giggle.

“I wonder why.”

“But really. It’s three.” He laid the book over her face. “No need to give me that look.” She heard his footfall going up the stairs. For some reason the sound enraged her. He was incapable of treading softly; he stomped everywhere he went.

“Light on your feet, my dear,” she growled quietly.

****

Her limbs felt heavy as she walked to the bathroom. It was the heat, the heat and the sleep lingering in her muscles. She tipped her head under the faucet and let the water run over her face; side streams branched over her neck and down her shirt. The taps never got cold enough this time of year. She pouted at her dripping visage in the mirror.

She looked beautiful, she thought, messy-haired and rosy. Grey, bright days like this one made her green eyes grey and bright, too. And she always liked her reflection best after she woke up from a nap—the sleep still warm in her cheeks, the latticework of the couch cushions still traceable in her face. Droplets collected on the rim of her bottom lip. Cherry mouth, she thought mechanically, raspberry mouth, currant mouth. . .apple cheeks, peach skin. . .

She wiped her face with her palms and wandered back into the living room.

Everything was in disarray, as usual. The old couch had lost its pliancy; the imprint of her body remained visible beneath the afghan. Food-encrusted bowls and half-drunk cups of tea, beginning to film over, cluttered the coffee table. Magazines spilled onto the floor and the rug bunched under the couch. If she didn’t clean up soon there would be fruit flies to answer to. She straightened the cushions and picked up the book off the floor. It was red and clothbound, its pages brittle. She opened it to the title page. Withdrawn from Carroll County Library System was stamped on the inside cover.

“Hey, it used to be a library book,” she shouted up the stairs.

Footsteps. “Hm?” he said, appearing above.

“I said, it was a library book.”

“So can you return it?”

“Was a library book. It’s been withdrawn.”

He shrugged. She shrugged.

“And it’s ghost stories,” she said.

“Hmm.” He snapped his fingers. “Aha. It’s Peter’s. I mean, it’s Anna’s, from Peter. He stopped by on the way back from the flea market. Said he got her something from the book man.”

“Peter was here?”

“Didn’t I just say he was?”

They looked at each other, one up, one down. “Well, I’ll go drop it off. I haven’t seen Anna in ages.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, disappearing again. “Could you pick up some two-percent while you’re out?”

“No, I’m walking.”

“Through the woods?”

“Through the woods.”

“With the bugs?”

“With the bugs.”

“That’ll take you ages. And it’s ninety-five outside,” floated his voice.

“It’s ninety-five in here,” she called back.

 

The woods were rather thin, rather shallow. She could see a long way through the runty trees. Perhaps a mile. The trees must have been fighting for water, she thought; the ground cracked and gasped in the August heat. It was not a day for walking.

Fingers curled around a birch trunk in the distance.

Perhaps she didn’t see. She kept walking. She shifted the book from her left armpit to her right. An inkblot of sweat hung on the cover. The air was so damp it felt almost too thick to inhale; the mosquitoes nagged at her ankles; her palms were pied red and white and her fingertips bulged. Dust settled on her legs in a fine patina.

A pair of blue eyes. No—one eye, and the suggestion of another.

She swatted at her calves and quickened her pace. A shard of sun pierced the clouds and seemed to follow her like a searchlight, drawing the sweat from the back of her neck. Runnels slid down her back, between her breasts. The cloth of the book cover began to abrade the underside of her arm; she stopped and peered at the smarting pink patch which, upon closer inspection, she saw comprised dozens of fine crosshatched lines.

“Agh!” she grumbled as a mosquito bit her behind the knee. They whined around her ears. She could hear them circling her like vultures. “Agh!” she cried again as she smashed one, then another, then another, jumping around wildly, shuddering at the thought of one flying under her dress, dropping the book in her frenzy. She slapped herself all over, covering every patch of every exposed limb. An animal noise issued from her throat. She stopped, panted, grew quiet. Spots of blood and smeared exoskeletons speckled her palms. Her tortoiseshell barrette had fallen to the ground. She picked it up and pushed it through her damp bangs. Wisps of babyfine hair still stuck to her cheeks and forehead.

“All right,” she murmured to herself. “All right.”

She picked up the book, which had fallen open, and shook out the dust she had kicked up. She smoothed her hair and resumed walking. Down the path she went, getting smaller and smaller, until she disappeared around a turn.

 

At least the reservoir hadn’t dried up. The waterline was perilously low, but it hadn’t dried up. She ventured a toe into the still surface.

She set the book down, glanced back at the path, and unbuttoned her dress. When she let it drop it billowed around her feet like a parachute. The reservoir was still miles from the neighbors; in any case forsythia bushes obscured it from the trail. She unhooked her bra and slipped off her underwear. Then with wild splashes she raced into the water before she could get bitten.

She dipped her head under and listened to the white hum always audible in water. She steeled herself and opened her eyes (this part always gave her a minute thrill of fear—she half expected to see black when she opened them, to be flooded blind): yellow-green, murky with particulates. She held herself suspended there, arms limp, face down, hair swaying like seaweed on the surface. Dead man’s float, dead woman’s float. . .dead woman floating, dead man walking. . .

She jerked her head out of the water.

“Hello,” said the man standing at the edge of the water.

With a swoop she righted herself. If she stood flat her nipples were just submerged. She crouched slightly.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” said the man, pointing to a wooden picket sign nailed into the dirt.

NO SWIMMING — PUBLIC WATER SUPPLY, it said.

She ducked her head under for a moment to clear the hair from her face.

“You can read, can’t you?” said the man, letting one side of his mouth curl into a smile. He wore slacks and a white dress shirt, unmarked by sweat even in this weather. She looked at his gleaming black shoes, which rested at about her eye level.

“Are you deaf?” He waved his hand back and forth. The water lapped the toe of his left shoe. She stared at the drama unfolding where the dirt met the water. Would his shoe get wet? Would it stay dry?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He whistled low. She looked up into his blue eyes. He looked down into her green eyes. “She speaks,” he said, holding her stare.

She pulled the matted locks of her hair in front of her shoulders and combed them over her chest. She didn’t see the water wash over his shoes.

“I’ll be right back,” said the man, holding up a finger. He took a step back. Without breaking her gaze he leaned over and picked up her clothing in one hand. “I’ll be right back.” Then he slipped behind the forsythia bushes.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked around. There was nothing to see but the downturned book. She stepped back, immersed now to her collarbone; the silt puckered under her toes.

 

The man was removing his shoes.

“I wouldn’t want these to get wet,” he said.

Under the shoes he wore argyle socks, charcoal with maroon diamonds. These he took off too. He laid the pairs side by side under a bush.

“Are you coming out?” he said. “Did you see the sign?” he said. He pointed to the sign.

Her hair drifted behind her. Topminnows darted through the tendrils.

He slipped off his belt and pulled out his shirttail. He undid his top button and worked his way down until the shirt hung open. He shrugged it to the ground. He unbuttoned his pants.

 

She lay panting at the edge of the shore, half-enveloped by the water that trembled and rippled around her.

The man’s face grazed her thigh under the water. His mouth hung open; water flooded his mouth, eddied into his nostrils and lungs.

She sat up. The minnows gathered at his chin. She swiped them away and grabbed him by the jaw, thumb under his chin and fingers curled over his teeth, turning him over to look up at her. His tongue was fattened with the reservoir. Pink tongue. Slug tongue.

She stood and stretched, dripping, muddy, sun-blushed, fingers hyperextended and indicating the sky. The clouds had broken. Baby blue shone through.

Then she sighed and waded further into the water, taking him by the wrists and dragging him along the smooth vegetable bottom, farther and farther, until he was invisible beneath the hazel swirl.

She splashed water on her arms and wiped the mud away. Black circles of filth outlined her fingernails, but she worked at them until her hands were soft and spotless. Her whole body glowed—she looked like she had been given a fresh skin. With another look at the lemon sun, she rose out of the reservoir and stepped onto the shore.