Moth Sightings

She looks so slender in that smooth black sheath, legs bandage-wrapped tight, shapely, long and oh, so smooth. Swimmer's legs, I'd assume. Tiny waist and flat stomach accentuated by that long exposed zipper running down her back. Her chest a pert medium, two round, cup-sized breasts palced just so, accompanied by the firm curve of the back and the backward angle of the arms that speaks to an athletic predisposition ofr high lung capacity and significant upper body strength but with the small-boned delicateness and slender muscled upper-body of a cat. Even her angled jaw said as much with two hazel eyes, always pertinently alert and deeply set, presenting a cool shaded appeal through which no eye shadow could be seen, and a triagnular jaw ending abruptly so as to give no attention to itself but to the mouth, full-lipped and ready.

We were to go swimming yesterday night at Carol Lake, but she said she had plans. I couldn't wait. I kept envisioning her athletic body sliding right-toe first into the liquid black water from where she sat on the dock, illuminated by the moonlight, the sleeping residences huddling up to the banks admist trees and overgrown grass such is found near lake edges. Her smooth pearlescent body glowing coolly in the moonlight, all curves and eerie white, made sensually rounder by the shadows shocked into being by the abundant moonlight. She slips in leaving only the sound of slipping. Where her body disappeared, rings undulate outwards one after another, continually being rebirthed from the center and expressing outwards through thick, surupy black coffee. The water is so still at this time of night with a surface like hot glass, all wonder and lollipop effervescence.

From where I sit among the short weeds, a bank of civilization, well-worn and well-tamped, I smell algae, cattails and the alkaline smell of grass, not recently cut. Across the lake a small white boey comes to my attention. Her head. She waves. I guess I have to go in now. The chill in the air is intimidating and I hope that the water is warmer. It is. I see her head, slick with wet black hair glide back beneath the water before her white rump, the last thing reflected by the moonlight before she disappears again, is a perfectly white round spider's egg, poised, obsequious, ready for arthropodic insemination. I imagine her body, slippery with algae and organic compounds as we tread water in the center of the lake, that grin of hers, too hard for me to keep up with. She slips out a gain, away, laughing. Her teasing in annoying. I freestyle after her toes and she laughs harder when she notices that I am unable to catch her. No win. I tread water where I am, hoping she'll come back to get me. She does. While I am waiting, I think of us in a canoe, curled up tightly against the night air, two caterpillars quickly batting a cocoon before dawn. The only view is the one of outerspace, a million lightining bugs just flung out like the offspring of rabbits after a particularly pleasant Sunday. She'll swim with me tonight. I'm sure.