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Kerouac
     
    A bit pretentious.
    He’s still staring at me, waiting for me to speak, to bend over backwards. He can forget that. I’m not in the mood to play twenty unanswered questions with him tonight.
    I step inside, hoping to avoid any further awkwardness with him.
    There. That should do it.
    He follows me into the house.
    Or not.
    I retreat to my room without acknowledging his entrance and drop off my bag before heading into the kitchen to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cold glass of milk. When I step through the swinging door, he’s leaning against the counter near the sink, drinking apple juice from the lip of the bottle. Suddenly, I wish I were that bottle, his lips pressed against mine.
    I mentally laugh the thought away.
    Why would I ever wish that?
    I walk over to the fridge for the ingredients, his eyes silently studying me. He lingers while I slather the bread with peanut paste, refusing to budge. It’s very distracting to have someone watch every little move you make. Mercifully, he walks out, allowing me to finish my late night snack in peace. Nothing like a PB&J after a night of drinking. I take it into my room, devouring it like a rabid pack animal, then slip into a thin nightshirt, perfect for hot summer nights, and slide into the cool relief of my unslept in sheets.
     

     
    It’s dark in my room when I wake. I make out the outline of furniture, which tells me it’s early in the morning. I’m a sweaty, sticky mess, lying in damp sheets. It’s hotter than a furnace in my room.
    I climb out of bed and exit my room to a deathly still house, except for the usual creaks and cracks the old structural bones make. I fiddle with the temperature pad on the wall outside my room, but the air conditioning—only used in the direst of situations—won’t turn on.
    Fantastic.
    Stubbornly, I keep fiddling with it until I conclude it’s futile, surrendering to modern technology.
    It’s a muggy pre-dawn morning, the air warm and damp, without a breath of wind to stir the heat. There’s only one solution to keep from succumbing to the stifling temperature when the cooling system is on the fritz, a night swim.
    I tiptoe across the hardwood floor to the screen door and open it carefully so it doesn’t let out a whining squeak. Luckily, it doesn’t. I wouldn’t want to alert the watchdog upstairs. Once out of ear’s reach, I sprint toward the shore of the lake to the dock’s edge, stripping my gown and panties off. Without a second thought of the temperature, I cut through the black water like a hot knife through butter. It’s cool silk against my skin.
    I come up for oxygen and float on my back, gazing up at the fading stars faintly spotting the vast sky, endless black bleeding into a steely gray. The symphony of critters sing their morning song, silenced with my ears submerged under the waterline and the muffled lapping of waves splashing against the dock. At peace drifting aimlessly on the current’s back, my body becomes one with the fluidity of the water.
    It’s destroyed instantly when a disturbance near the dock startles the quiet. Flailing around until I’m upright, I search around me frantically, terrified it may be a wild animal—or worse. There’s only ripples where something disrupted the calm of the water’s surface.
    I make a mad dash for the shore when a face pops out from the depths inches from mine. I scream, putting banshees to shame.
    It’s Holt.
    For one brief heartbeat, I’m relieved it’s him. Then relief turns to annoyance.
    “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on someone like that?” I shove his shoulder. “You scared me half to death!”
    When he laughs, I lunge at him, pushing him back with an irritated growl. I remember I’m stark naked and move away from him, dipping my shoulders under the surface.
    I want to escape him immediately, but in my condition, I’m pretty much trapped. I need to get out of this situation before dawn breaks. Otherwise,