It felt like old times and it felt like new times.
And I went to sleep wishing she was in my bed, wishing that I could be brave enough to walk down the hall to her room and gives ourselves a second chance, if only for a night.
Maybe there will be another chance tomorrow.
But there are only so many chances left.
The next morning, we get up with the sparrows again and herd the cows into the barn. I thought I convinced Shay to learn how to milk a cow by hand, but now that we’re standing by the cow, ready to go, she crosses her arms, looking unsure.
“On second thought, maybe milking a cow is a skill I don’t really need,” Shay says warily. “Not sure it will do me much good on a resume.”
I grin at her and nod toward the cow who is eyeballing her, like get on with it. “It’s too late. She’s expecting you. Besides,” I hold out my hand, “give me your phone. I’ll document it for your Instagram. See, now it’s a worthy skill.”
She weighs that in her head and to my surprise she unzips the front of her burgundy jumpsuit and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She hands it to me then zips her suit back up. We’re both wearing them, me out of solidarity since getting dirty is second nature to me.
Then she poses beside the cow, looking adorable in the jumpsuit and the oversized rubber boots, her hair pulled back into a braid.
“Do I look cool?” she asks, as I take a couple of photos, getting the framing just right.
“You look cute,” I tell her. “Sexiest farm girl I’ve ever seen.”
She seems satisfied with that as I give the phone back and she tucks it back inside her jumpsuit. “Okay, now what?”
I pull over the low stool and the bucket. “Here. Sit.”
“You sit,” she says. “I need you to demonstrate.”
“It’s better if you learn as you go. I’ll guide you. Sit.”
She sighs and plops down on the stool, staring at the cow’s udders. The cow lets out a low moo and I slap her side affectionately. She needs to be milked and is going to get antsy if we don’t hurry along. She’s used to being hooked up to the machine along with the rest of her friends.
Then I crouch low right behind Shay, pressing my chest against her back, my arms going around her arms, my hands over hers, guiding her into place.
“Just like the movie Ghost,” I tell her, my lips brushing against her hair, close to her ear. I can feel her stiffen beneath me, shudder slightly, like I gave her the shivers. I can only hope it’s the good kind.
“Here,” I tell her, trying not to breathe in her apple-scented hair. “Let me show you.”
I move her hand over the cow’s teats, getting her to hold on.
She gasps and giggles. “Ahhh, this is weird. Is it weird for the cow?”
I laugh. “Probably? The cow is used to efficiency and the machine doesn’t giggle.”
She tries to take her hands away. “I can’t do it. This is too weird. I’m going to mess up.”
I sigh and let go of her hands, but I don’t move. I reach up and start milking the cow myself, trying to demonstrate the technique.
“See how I’m pinching it toward the end?”
“Stop making this sexual.”
I burst out laughing, my hands dropping away. The cow moos with impatience. “Sexual? Well now you’ve made it weird.”
“You’re the one who just compared this to the Ghost pottery scene.”
Okay, so she has a point about that one.
“Fine, fine,” I tell her. “Just give it a shot.”
She exhales, adjusting herself on the stool, squaring her shoulders. Then she tries again. She kind of has it right. “Yes, good. Keep going.”
“Shhhh,” she tells me. “You’re making it weird again.”
I look over at the cow, who stares back at me. I swear I see the cow shake her head.
But Shay is a fast learner. I stay crouched behind her, watching, but I let her do all of it, letting her figure out the best technique for herself. It’s not long before she’s in an easy rhythm, the milk filling the bucket, and the cow looks calm and happy.
“There you go, you’re doing it. Want me to take a picture?”
“That would involve you unzipping me and reaching down into my pant pocket.”
“Ah, and you don’t want to make it sexual,” I remind her.
“Maybe some memories are better left to us and not to the internet,” she says after a beat, her hands still working.
“Now you’re speaking my language,” I tell her, rocking back on my heels. “You know, when I’m out at sea we don’t have any cell reception at all. That’s weeks and weeks of nothing. Sometimes I’ll bring a camera along, especially if whales tend to be in the area, but I never post anything. I think it’s good to keep things for yourself.”