/ One Point for Me

"I really wish you hadn't called last night," she says, lacing up her shoes. "He already thinks I spend too much time with you."

"I am so sorry," he says, pulling up from his stretch and looking struck. "I was sure you said he was working. God, I mean the last thing I want to do is cause probl---"

"One point for me!" she squeals and darts off down the trail.

He catches up with her and says, "You know, I'm not sure if this game is doing my fragile mental state any good."

Over the puddle, right foot up onto the bank, underneath the low-hanging branches, she says, "Fine, but remember that you started it. I won't play it anymore. It was just a joke."

There are too many turns on this path for lines of sight or thought.

"Oh, wait, now I didn't mean to say ---"

"No, no. You said what you said. You always do. It's probably why you always lose at this game."

He slows, lets her separate by two strides.

She presses by running faster.

"In fact, it's probably why you always lose at everything. You don't act. You barely react. You never take what's right there for the taking. And..." Now she stops. "Maybe it's time we found different partners. Or maybe just different hobbies."

"Hey, I didn't mean it like that at all! I think the game is fine, it's just that some subjects probably just aren't cut out for---"

"Two points for me!" she says and skips, before darting off down the trail.

"Okay, I admit, you really had me on that one," he says breathlessly upon catching her. "That was just well-played. I am humbled."

"You should be."

The small cove known as Otter Beach harbors the seven canoes of seven neighbors who once made a curious pact that would always remind them of home. They painted each canoe in different pastels, and called the shore Rainbow Row. He mentions this to her as they pass, and then he tells her to run more slowly because at the end of the sheltered waters there is a fallen cedar that protects a small flock of mergansers and if they are close enough he will jump into the water and catch her a feather. They hear the splashing of the birds flying away before he even finishes his promise.

He stops her by the elbow. He presses a finger to his lips. He pulls her closer to the cedar. He points at its submerged tip. A moment later, the fan shaped head emerges and stares back with a solitary, red eye. There is a crimson sort of pause that reminds him of a drawing he once saw. It accompanied a poem he used to read as a child. It was about the final moments of a trout caught by an angler. He does what he always does. He tries to remember the verses. He is quiet for too long. He leaves her wondering. Eventually, he leaves her impatient.

"Can we..." she starts. But he is there and she is within arms reach and he takes what is right there for the taking.

"Oh." She puts her fingers to her lips. She is crimson like the pause between angler and prey. "Oh."

"One point for me," he says. He runs fast. Around the next bend is a small inlet that conceals a pair of kingfishers. They always dart off down the trail before he can get close enough. He dreams of one day coming close enough to jump, take a small feather for his own.