Clay sat on
the riverbank, smiling like a loon, transfixed, his hand wrapped tightly around
a small, bloodied, slip of pink polka dot cloth with the words MEGAN sewn neatly
into it. His hands shook. Not much, just a little, but enough that someone –
anyone, actually – may have found motive to ask what the matter was had they
seen them tremble.
But fortune was on his side. Nobody would see him here, he
knew; not today, not tomorrow, nor on any day afterwards. This was his spot ...
his secret sanctuary ... away from the hum drum of everyday life and the busybodies
who thought they knew better.
He wiggles his toes in the water and fells a school of fish
brush beneath them.
Ahead of him, maybe three or four feet, the water falls still.
There were no more ripples and no more splashes to ruin the mirror surface; only
the blissful serenity of silence and peace.
Poor little mite, he thought. It’s such a shame nobody ever taught you how to swim.
His smile broadened, stretching from ear to ear, and he
tosses the purple strap into the water. It floats ahead of him, towards the
spot its owner sank, before vanishing out of sight ... much like the smile eventually
did on his ruddy, sun-kissed, face.
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