What Burns Away by Melissa Falcon Field

anyone who saw us would have thought I was being dragged. Yet I submitted willingly to the childishness of the gesture, which endeared me to him immediately.
    â€œWant my hand?” I offered in an almost-shout over a tugboat horn.
    â€œI’m taking your pulse,” Miles announced.
    Then, through the open doors of the pubs lining Main Street came the collective grumble of a wanton Red Sox nation. And, as if inspired by their groan, Miles pulled me into his coat and we stood looking over the water, our backs to the noise.
    He did not kiss me but whispered instead, his lips barely touching my ear, “Nervous girl.”
    â€œNo, no.” I corrected him. “Excited girl.”
    He let go of my wrist and guided my fingers to his neck, where I felt his pulse racing and the world receding around us. I breathed deeply, smelled the salt in the air, and asked the same question: “Nervous man?”
    He whispered, “Maybe.”
    And in that moment, staring out over the flat waters of the Atlantic, dark and slick as obsidian, I knew somehow that the two of us would run off into the unknown together.
    â€œBeautiful night,” I said.
    â€œBut no wind,” he added. “Otherwise, I’d take you out in my old dory right now. But without a motor, we might be set adrift.”
    It didn’t sound so bad. “Let’s swim,” I said, buzzed by the wine.
    Feeling enchanted by the mild autumn night, I tugged on his arm, moving us further down the wharf, growing eager for the possibility brewing between us. I pointed to a spot above the horizon and below the quarter moon.
    â€œSea smoke,” I told him. “The ocean is warmer than the air. Probably the warmest, calmest waters we’ll see until summer.”
    I pulled off my coat and laid it across the creaking dock, then slid off my sandals and wiggled out of my jeans.
    Miles watched me.
    â€œYou’re insane!” he said, meaning it as a compliment.
    And shortly thereafter he was tossing his own coat onto the wharf, shrugging out of his shirt, and pulling his Cleveland Indians T-shirt over his head. “So we’re really gonna do this?”
    His body was lean and chiseled in those days, the physique of a runner or a swimmer, maybe, some sinewy sort of Iron Man. And in the dark, his smile was bright.
    Then I took him by the wrist. And as I heaved Miles toward the end of the plank, wearing only my tank top, bra, and panties, he was heavier than he appeared. Unable to budge him further, I stood on my tippy-toes and shouted: “Ready? One, two, three!”
    Headfirst into the water with my best swan dive, my body plummeted through the calm. I held my breath through the momentary shock of the cold and opened my eyes, watching the bubbles and silver light as I crested to the water’s surface.
    Standing shirtless in just a pair of jeans, Miles watched me bob.
    â€œNo way!” he shouted.
    I let out a shriek. “It’s only cold for a second!”
    Miles took several slow paces backward, his head held low like a scolded puppy, and as soon as I believed he had decided against it, he dropped his jeans, stepped from them, then ran as fast as he could, cannonballing into the bay.
    A foot away from me, he came up for air.
    â€œYou’re nuts, you know that?” he called out with such open admiration that it made me laugh too, delighted at myself.
    We swam toward each other, treading water and giggling like kids, holding on to one another and finally kissing until Miles’s teeth began to chatter.
    â€œLet’s get warm,” he said, initiating our return.
    I hurried up the slick rungs of the wharf first.
    Close behind, Miles spotted me, keeping his hand on my hip.
    Still giggling and hopping to ward off the chill, we dried our dimpled skin on our coats and shimmed our damp bodies into our jeans. Dressed, we stood for a moment, beholding one another. He grinned. “I like you,” he said, and