Saturday, June 22, 2013

theory of buoyancy

The Promenade, by Marc Chagall (1918)

The grassy blue sunlit lane dog-legged between the willows, a weathered red barn in the clearing ahead about fifty yards. He pointed to her left shoe.
"You're untied, tongue's crooked, that must be uncomfortable". Before she could answer, he added: "You should let me lift you". She looked up at him down on one knee, shoe off, a quick readjustment, alternating between tying and pushing back long dark hair falling over her right eye. She sighed.
"Lift me? Why"?
"Suppose we were walking", he said, "walking along and there before us a muddy puddle, or you twist your ankle, hobbling. What am I to do, run the other way? You should know if the man beside you is strong enough to heave you to safety".
She stood, pushed back her hair, but did not answer. She walked on until he took her hand in his. It was the first time they'd touched. He looked at her, she looked down at her shoes, a faint smile appearing like a delicate and silent rolling wave over a field of barley.
"Alright", she said hesitantly, still looking down. The shy sun came out from behind a white thinning cloud and spotlighted the barn brilliantly before them.

She watched his brown eyes the entire ride, hoisted in a room with a view, floating it seems, imagining a life of a thousand muddy puddles, but no more than a couple minor sprained ankles, thank you. His knees were weak from something other than strain as they entered the barn, leaps of faith rather than step by step by step. Her heart so pure gave him strength to go another one hundred miles if need be. The curvature of the tongue equals an opposite and invariant gravitating tongue. Of course, mind you, perfect atmospheric conditions and a a bed of hay must be taken into consideration.


Blogger Tess Kincaid said...

Adore your description of her smile...

6/22/2013 4:15 PM  

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