these fish doing here, where they were pushed and pulled by this bastard tide? This was nowhere to live. But these bright fish, existing only to be looked at, or pushed around, or eaten. She thought of people she had known. She forced metaphors. The sun shot through the surface like God imagined it, in straight and fabulous rays. The water was full of fish she’d seen in pictures and pet stores.
Pilar and Hand had woken up facing opposite walls but their ankles entwined. They smiled at each other and he reached over and grabbed her nose, as if to pluck it off. She knew that they would continue to sleep together because the night before had been good, and nothing wrong had happened. It would be this way: at night they would brush their teeth and sit on the bed and pull their legs around and under the thin blanket. They would scoot toward each other, their hands searching like those of children pretending to be blind.
To Pilar’s left came three small sharks, striped, built like jets. They were headed for her. She was calm and knew she could make it safely. She pointed her head toward the shore and with her flippers gave the sharks a flurry of waved good-byes, the fins like handkerchiefs in a breeze. Close to shore she stood in the warm shallows, feet slipping over the mossy rocks, and looked for Hand. He wasn’t anywhere. She wanted him not to be attacked by sharks. She wanted to sit on him, on this island, facing the sunset—it was all the colors of a bloody wound.
But there was a man on the island. She hadn’t seen him before. Or he’d just shown up, and Hand was not visible but the man, not far away, waved to her and stepped toward her. He was about forty, and wearing a small swimsuit and sunglasses, neon-framed, reflective lenses. She jumped back into the water, not fearing the sharks. He followed her to the water and then screamed at her, slapping his chest.
On the way back to shore, after she recounted the episode and described the man—Hand had not seen him—Hand scolded her for wearing clothes that invited the attention of men in the town whom the two of them didn’t know enough about and couldn’t necessarily trust.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be seen as prey,” he said.
He went into great detail about what the men in the town had been doing when she’d been walking by. There was the guard in front of the bank, who carried a semiautomatic rifle and, according to Hand, looked Pilar up and down and inside out each time they went into the bank or passed by. How does she decide not to wear a bra? Hand wanted to know this. Not to alarm her, he said, but men covet certain women, women they see every day. So perhaps it would behoove her—he used this word—to do more to disinvite the gaze of these men.
She was speechless. She was furious and confused and ashamed and wanted to club him and kick him and jump on his head.
“I care about you, Pilar,” he said. “Don’t get pissed. And don’t make that face.”
Her lower teeth were jutting out, like a piranha’s. She knew she did this. She was angry that it was now this way with them, and so soon: she was not free. She would be given advice, or whatever it was. They paddled and she focused on the broken hillside. She put Hand in a new category. He was that . This was this, and nothing more.
In the evenings the sun dropped through the ocean and the sky would darken quickly. Armadillos scurried below their deck, under the streetlamp, their shiny shells sniffling through the high grass. Under the bed where Pilar and Hand slept, platoons of ants circled around crumbs and moved them to the door, under, and on to parts unknown. Geckos squiggled up and down the wall above the screen door, heading to and from what appeared to be their home, in the beam in the center of the room. The dusty white light during the day never wavered. There were three or four clouds all week.
For a few days Pilar and Hand were married. They surfed and
Pilar and Hand had woken up facing opposite walls but their ankles entwined. They smiled at each other and he reached over and grabbed her nose, as if to pluck it off. She knew that they would continue to sleep together because the night before had been good, and nothing wrong had happened. It would be this way: at night they would brush their teeth and sit on the bed and pull their legs around and under the thin blanket. They would scoot toward each other, their hands searching like those of children pretending to be blind.
To Pilar’s left came three small sharks, striped, built like jets. They were headed for her. She was calm and knew she could make it safely. She pointed her head toward the shore and with her flippers gave the sharks a flurry of waved good-byes, the fins like handkerchiefs in a breeze. Close to shore she stood in the warm shallows, feet slipping over the mossy rocks, and looked for Hand. He wasn’t anywhere. She wanted him not to be attacked by sharks. She wanted to sit on him, on this island, facing the sunset—it was all the colors of a bloody wound.
But there was a man on the island. She hadn’t seen him before. Or he’d just shown up, and Hand was not visible but the man, not far away, waved to her and stepped toward her. He was about forty, and wearing a small swimsuit and sunglasses, neon-framed, reflective lenses. She jumped back into the water, not fearing the sharks. He followed her to the water and then screamed at her, slapping his chest.
On the way back to shore, after she recounted the episode and described the man—Hand had not seen him—Hand scolded her for wearing clothes that invited the attention of men in the town whom the two of them didn’t know enough about and couldn’t necessarily trust.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be seen as prey,” he said.
He went into great detail about what the men in the town had been doing when she’d been walking by. There was the guard in front of the bank, who carried a semiautomatic rifle and, according to Hand, looked Pilar up and down and inside out each time they went into the bank or passed by. How does she decide not to wear a bra? Hand wanted to know this. Not to alarm her, he said, but men covet certain women, women they see every day. So perhaps it would behoove her—he used this word—to do more to disinvite the gaze of these men.
She was speechless. She was furious and confused and ashamed and wanted to club him and kick him and jump on his head.
“I care about you, Pilar,” he said. “Don’t get pissed. And don’t make that face.”
Her lower teeth were jutting out, like a piranha’s. She knew she did this. She was angry that it was now this way with them, and so soon: she was not free. She would be given advice, or whatever it was. They paddled and she focused on the broken hillside. She put Hand in a new category. He was that . This was this, and nothing more.
In the evenings the sun dropped through the ocean and the sky would darken quickly. Armadillos scurried below their deck, under the streetlamp, their shiny shells sniffling through the high grass. Under the bed where Pilar and Hand slept, platoons of ants circled around crumbs and moved them to the door, under, and on to parts unknown. Geckos squiggled up and down the wall above the screen door, heading to and from what appeared to be their home, in the beam in the center of the room. The dusty white light during the day never wavered. There were three or four clouds all week.
For a few days Pilar and Hand were married. They surfed and
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