The Marshlands
Do you remember that first week I came to you?
What were we? Twenty-something? My favorite moment was the day that the sun set over the English marshlands as we drove to your flat. Orange and gray swirled in warm wisps above our heads as you drove your father’s old sunflower yellow 1975 Land Rover Series III. The windows were slid open as the late afternoon breeze pushed through and bounced off our cheeks. After a full week of tasting England’s worst dishes, you wanted to spend the majority of my last day driving through the country. I can still remember the dense mud that wafted and landed on my tongue--how the early whispers of rain danced around my fingers as I waved my hand out the window. The wind had pushed against my fingernails as I surfed the howls of the marsh. You had compared me to Brighton’s ocean waves. I smiled and responded with something snarky enough to make you snort.
At this point, your arm was only half covered in ink; a partial collage of peonies, sun rays, daggers, and sea. As one of my hands swam through the wind, the other brushed over the waters on your skin, arms scarred and beautiful. The fading sun couldn’t stop the pit in my stomach from forming that afternoon. Flashes of my impending doom on the plane I would take the next day overwhelmed me as the deafening wind had crashed against my ears. You know. I always get that image of our plane crashing into a mountain side, or maybe into the Atlantic--which always seemed so much more real the more I flew over it. But I remember how your hand held on to mine, keeping me in that dirty leather seat with you. The clock read “20:15.” I think music was playing? Or maybe it was just our laughter mixed with the raging car engine. Regardless, it was perfect. I can still see the freckles that were stronger from the earlier sun that were beginning to settle on your face. God, I can still smell the horrible aioli we had with our lunch on your breath. Not to mention the strong taste of garlic on your tongue as we sat on the muddied hood of your car, catching the last dregs of sunlight before continuing on the road.
As the sky was painted lilac and splattered with stars, we drove down the country roads and you asked for some water. Now, we had a system, I remember. With one hand, you would hold the base of your water bottle while I unscrewed the top. I would wait patiently as you drank, your eyes never leaving the empty road. And then, after taking a sip of my own and putting the bottle cap back on, you would give me one of your smiles that could knock a full army to their knees. I was as weak as those soldiers, falling back against the car cushions and wishing the old leather would just swallow me up. It was sort of strange how easy it’s always been for you to have that effect on me. In that car, I felt like those callused hands of yours held my heart--fingers feeling each beat. I remember thinking you would drop it.
I loved how the sky was reflected in the puddles of the marsh. The clouds and rising stars seemed to wake up in the shining waters; where branches darkened with a past fire grew with a new sense of purpose. You had lifted your aviators off your nose, resting them on the top of your head as you let your vision adjust to the lighting change. The lenses were smudged and sprinkled with dust. You turned the headlights on. Your fingers drummed against the steering wheel, sound absent as the outside drowned the peace of it under its roaring.
Did you know I almost told you I loved you at that moment? The screaming of the engine and possibility of being buried under it was tempting. Just the thought of saying those words out loud, just for me to know, was oh-so appealing. The way your sun kissed hair always curled so perfectly and the small scar above your lip made the words curl around my throat--warm and gasping. But, I didn’t do it then. Because, as I felt my restraint slipping from my mouth, you turned to look at me. You and your stupid ability of always knowing when I’m looking at you. Your grip pulsed on the steering wheel.
Would you ever move here with me? You had asked me, clear like the noises around us suddenly quieted.
Sure, I’ll move to this swamp with you. I had said, face flushing with my loose smirk. You playfully flicked my cheek, a laugh on the tip of your tongue.
This is a marsh, actually, but I really mean it. Would you move to England?
It was a new moon that night. It almost seemed like all the vibrant cream of the sky turned into engulfing ink as the minutes passed by.
I looked at you and you smiled. Just a thought. You said.
I wondered if it was raining back home in Pennsylvania as your chest rose and fell evenly with each breath; then the dirt roads became pavement. You shifted gears, and for a second I believed you would stop the car. But we kept going. And we stayed silent, even as we got to your flat. Even as we brushed our teeth. Even as I packed my bag.
Then, as we fell under the covers and your alarm clock blared the numbers “4:37,” you kissed my nose and pressed into my skin one quiet good night. And then you slept through the whole night, lightly snoring against my chest. And I stared at the maroon of your ceiling.
