Ted is kneeling on the bridge in front of her. Quietly. It’s not like him. The man Hannah knows expands to fill empty spaces. He hates silence. It makes him nervous when he has no reason to be, but now, when he should be nervous, he isn’t. She can tell by his even breath, by his stillness, by the unwavering hand that holds the ring.
She can’t look him in the eyes, so she looks at the water instead. It’s the same color, brownish green and sparkling in the afternoon light. She imagines a life with him, stretching out like the river, further than she can see. She loves him. They’ve been together too long to not love each other.
He’s waiting.
This was her place before she brought him to it, fifteen long years ago and she still loves it like she did then. She loves the wooden rail with its flaking white paint, the faded boards that bounce beneath her feet, the willow trees, the slow-moving river far below. She loves the fantastic impossibility of standing over water.
“Look straight ahead,” she told him that first time, holding her arms straight out to the sides and opening herself to the summer breeze. “When you look straight ahead from here, it feels like flying. Like you’re a crane gliding over the water. You can almost feel your feet skim the surface. Can you feel it, Ted?”
He couldn’t feel it, but he liked watching her fly, so he spread his arms and pretended to look straight ahead, all the while sneaking glances at the way her cheeks flushed when she was happy.
Their first kiss was here–when her hair was still long and he hadn’t yet grown a beard–and it was like flying too, only less like a crane and more like a hot air balloon. Afterwards, he picked a cattail and presented it to her as if it were a prize. She accepted it with a curtsy, like it was the Medal of Honor.
They fought here too, but only once, when she decided to leave. “Morocco,” she said, “I’ve wanted this ever since I saw Casablanca.” The color in her cheeks made his breath catch. He punched the third post down, the one they were standing beside, with all the force of his anger, but it didn’t sway the bridge any more than it swayed Hannah. “I’ll be back,” she said, with infuriating calm. “It’s only a year.”
She missed this place while she was away, her thinking spot. He picked just the right place. He knows her.
She turns to him and he smiles, ready to take her in his arms, to lift her off her feet and spin her in mad, joyous circles.
She remembers how she used to love the ringlet of hair at the back of his neck, how she used to love the way he held a coffee cup, with one finger curled over the rim. Her mouth is dry, but everything is clear here.
Hannah swallows. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry, but no.”
Jennifer Tatroe is a Seattle-area writer, recently transplanted from northern Colorado. She loves Elvis, hates olives, and is currently ambivalent about pirates.
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11 Responses to “WHEN SHE COMES TO IT • by Jennifer Tatroe”
Comments
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June 14th, 2008 at 1:07 am
Jennifer:
I have such mixed feelings about this story.
I love your style. You have a knack for capturing character in just a few words and an eye for detail that strikes a chord with me.
I giggled all the way through Conversation 9:04 PM and you had me all the way through this one — until the last line. I suppose, with this set up, it’s a damned if you do/damned if you don’t situation, but I just didn’t feel the punch I thought was coming.
It’s still a good story, I gave it a four, but I would have loved to give it a five.
K.C.
June 14th, 2008 at 1:45 am
I kind of agree with KC here.
Still, it was a good story, nice work.
June 14th, 2008 at 4:48 am
This was great, Jennifer. You’ve got a voice here that reminds me slightly of recent Anne Tyler (Amateur Marriage).
As far as what people say about the ending, about it lacking ‘punch’, I think I understand where they’re coming from. This has more a poetic flavor to the end. The power in it lies in the atmosphere you’ve created, not so much in the plot you’ve constructed. So in that sense, this story would leave poets very satisfied, but fiction writers might end up wanting more.
In any event, great job. I’m impressed.
June 14th, 2008 at 4:53 am
Terrific piece.
June 14th, 2008 at 8:34 am
I love your voice.
June 14th, 2008 at 10:14 am
Interesting and intuitive comment, Patrick. I did study as both a poet and a fiction writer and I do probably blur the line between the two in a way that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t (or works for some and doesn’t for some).
June 14th, 2008 at 10:49 am
I liked the ending. Was no surprise, as she is the independent type; Morocco being the cue. I like your voice as well.
–dj
June 14th, 2008 at 5:09 pm
I thought the ending spot on. Nicely understated, and surprisingly true to life. A really, really good flash.
June 16th, 2008 at 12:59 am
Jennifer - Wonderfull
Don’t stop you have a voice that should and will be heard. Yes I saw the ending from the very first line… but isn’t the how and the why the whole point sometimes?
June 16th, 2008 at 6:52 am
I liked the way you left it up to the reader to fill in the blanks on Hannah’s response. Giving too many details can spoil the magic, and I think you’ve given just enough to hold your readers under your spell. Good job.
June 28th, 2008 at 10:53 pm
A lovely story. The ending was as it should be, your MC had grown after leaving for a year. It’s the beauty of your words that drew me along. Anita Shreve is another author who does that for me.
I’m giving it 5.
Jennifer