Letters From Kay, Number 3 – The Water Remembered You

My love,

The heat finally broke last night. I woke up to that cool that only happens up here in late August, the one that makes the lake look like glass. I put on your shirt and walked down barefoot. Dew on my ankles. Nobody on the path but me and a couple of jays being rude about it.

I swam. You always said the water was too cold until July. It's still cold. I went in anyway.

I thought about you the whole way out. How you'd wait on the dock like you were being patient, and then you'd come in after me the second I looked back. How your hands found my waist under the water before I even heard you. I floated on my back and let the sun have me. My shirt went see-through, then I took it off and let it hang on the dock like a flag. If anyone had come down the trail they'd have gotten quite a show. Nobody did. Just me, and the idea of you, and that little ache that starts when I remember how you look at me when I'm wet.

I touched myself in the water. Slow. The kind of slow you make me do when you want to watch. I said your name into the sky and came with my mouth open, quiet, because the mountain keeps secrets but I still like pretending it might tell you.

Came back up dripping. Made coffee. Your mug, not mine. I'm wearing the shirt again even though it's damp. It smells like lake and you, which is a mean combination when you're not here to take it off me.

Come home before the leaves start. I want you in this water. I want your mouth where the cold made me shiver.

Forever yours,

Kay

P.S. Your Booby Pillow was on the porch when I got back, sunning itself like it owns the place. I brought it inside. It can keep your side of the bed warm until you do.