- Top Story - October 2021
NightswimmingTop Story - October 2021
Sometimes I go swimming alone, at night. Under the silvered scree of moonlight, I undress and pad quietly into the cool shallows. In September, the fog rolls in, an ancient cue for impending winter and the solid freeze known in the north as Ice Down. I will lean back, float serenely, eyes trained on the slivers of light that breach the overhanging pines. I imagine I am young, a girl in the throes of teenage angst, rebelling against the oaken crush of an overtired single mother. I imagine I am in love, arms twisted around the muscular shoulders of an older lover, a sensual tryst in the chill of autumn. I imagine I am strong, stronger than his pressings, his pleas, his sweet whispers and platitudes in my crimson ear.
Dinner for Two
He saw her for the first time from the patio. She wore one of those flowery dresses that signal spring and absolutely simmer in the brutality of Florida’s July high season. She was just standing, staring out across the green-blue horizon, gazing upon the eternities and follies of life that tiptoe that dark mirage known as the future. He gripped the white metal rail of the balcony, listening to the heady gusts whistling between the rusted welds and jittering steel.
The difference between the violent man and the psychopath is the brutality of the act. Where the violent man is reactive, the psychopath remains personally absent, separated from the act itself, and thereby immune to its brutality. The psychopath is not a slave to rage or emotion. He is not prone to violent outbursts or a tidal wave of triggers and fissures. He is an equalizing effect in a society rubbed raw by two extremes: passivity and violence. The psychopath is not an inherently violent man, he is a calculating, rational being, and that is why he is so fucking dangerous.
When I was young, Saturdays were the best. While other kids might head over to the fields for soccer or baseball practice, I was spending time with Mom and Dad. With the sun hanging just above the dark blue horizon of the Atlantic Ocean, Dad would tap my shoulder, rousing me from which ever dreamland had occupied my slumber. Mom would have pancakes or cereal or sometimes even donuts waiting in the kitchen, and we would all eat together sleepily in the rising warmth of the Florida sun.