Follow Me

"Follow me," she said.

I threw back my head and did as I was told.

It was her shoulder blades that mesmerized me — the slight irregular checks of her shirt between the blades pushing and pulling me in jerky waves.

We passed down a narrow alley and splashed out on the shore, stumbling over piles of trash. We lifted off and bounced in a bubble of light, soft underfoot and springy to the touch, a jellyfish dome.

Floating upward in the bubble, I couldn't tell if we were sinking or rising — I was too focused on doing the right thing, in not falling out of line.

With the Setouchi somewhere, we were froth, we were checks spinning oppositely, me wondering which side of the earth the sun was on. We came down on pavement and I sighed, me still staring at her back.

The light changed. It came streaming from my mouth, pouring over the checks which were really fields — wheat and new rice alternating — fluffed umbers and sheets of glass. We walked into it, stepping up onto the curb, my seven-year-old self.