#68

Clutching the cold railing, they pull from a bottle of clear liquid, handed to them as a reverse ticket. A means of entrance. The liquid ignites their tongues, lights their esophagi. They hand it back and lower themselves into the vessel, make new acquaintance. The motor growls and exerts itself against the deep grey water. Cold air brushing rosy cheeks, the water that supports the vessel spraying, invading, dampening clothing and accumulating on the thin plastic floor. Awareness of knees touching. An old yacht comes into view, starts small and grows upon approach. They circle around the back and a damp black rope is tossed ashore to waiting hands. He boards first, and turns to see her hands outstretched, waiting for his. He grasps, pulls, and she is next to him, onboard. Welcome.