@andrewsjamie
He wasn’t drunk enough for this.
November meant cold, nearly-winter cold, and it was only a few minutes’ walk from his door to the edge of the dock, but by the time their shoes hit the planks, Nate could already feel it. “Shit,” he said. The word came out light like a breath. Out here, the water picked up the shine from other houses’ porch lights and otherwise sat black. He imagined it thick like tar. He imagined himself encased. Preserved.
Nate’s fingers played at the hem of his sweater, practicing for the lift. Not yet. He turned, instead, and toed off his Sperries — one foot, then the other. “Alright,” he said, “this is it. Last chance to back out.” His voice was halted, betraying the part of him that hoped he’d come to his senses. That part was getting smaller every day.
