The Silver Kiss

“Zoë,” Simon said, pulling up short, and he held out his hand.

A detached part of her wondered at his not being out of breath, while she took his hand automatically, as if she had been doing it for years. They continued walking, and she shifted the umbrella to cover him, too, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Where are you going?” He flipped his sopping-wet hair back from his eyes, scattering drops down her cheek.

“The hospital.”

His eyes registered surprise, concern perhaps. “You are ill?”

“No, my mother’s there.”

“Oh.”

They stepped off the curb to cross the street. She saw him wince as he hopped across the stream in the gutter. “You all right?”

“Flowing water,” he explained. “It’s a problem to me.

“What do you mean?”

“Water rejects the dead. A corpse floats to the surface, no matter how long it takes.”

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, she thought. It’s creepy.

“I am at odds with nature,” he continued. “And the whole natural world tries to remind me of this. The sun burns me; and when I cross running water, I can feel it trying to heave me off the face of the earth. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

No wonder he was sick on that voyage from England, she thought. If it’s true. She squeezed his hand, and that made him smile.

They reached the bus stop, and he took in the red-and-white transit sign. “Can I come?” He dropped her hand to search his pockets but seemed to find nothing that satisfied him.

“I have enough for you too,” she said. Let him come. It felt right.

His hands stopped searching and relaxed into the side pockets of his jacket. “You don’t mind sharing the time with her?”

“No.” She was touched by his insight. “It’ll be good for her. She doesn’t get out much nowadays. She likes unusual people. She’ll have a wonderful time trying to figure you out.”

“You love her very much.” It wasn’t a question. “It’s a difficult time for you.”

“Understatement.” Her lips twisted wryly.

“I haven’t seen much of natural death. What is it your mother is dying of?”

Zoë bristled. How could he sound so cold? “She has cancer. I wouldn’t call that natural.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound callous, but next to the death I’ve seen dealt, it seems much more natural. I mean, within the laws of nature at least.”

The bus came. Zoë climbed the steps, folding her umbrella, and slammed enough change for both of them in the slot. He talked as if her mother were a specimen. She didn’t bother to check if he followed her. She sat halfway down the almost empty bus, opposite the rear door, and laid the wet umbrella on the floor. When she sat up, she saw him grab the back of the seat in front and swing in gracefully beside her. He looked worried.

“I didn’t mean to trivialize your mother’s death. I know it matters. Every death matters.”

They were silent for a while, as the bus lurched through the night.

“At first,” he finally said, “you think—no, hope—it might be a dream. That you’ll wake up, and it will have been just a nightmare.”

Zoë turned sharply to look at him. Was he mocking her? But his gaze was far away, not even on her.

“You think she’ll be there,” he continued, “pulling the curtains to let in the sun, wishing you good morning.