Buoyancy by George Vincent
Last night we were out drinking in Zadar’s old town. She drinks slowly and I am all mouth, a glutton, a baby stuffing itself with cakes and never getting full. All my life this has been my problem. A basic inability to really enjoy anything. The brink of almost every otherwise happy moment is underlined by a tense, impending panic.
It was the pizza boy who tipped me over the edge. I had guzzled my wine and half hers and demanded we plough onward for food. In the shop I pointed to the two slices we wanted under the glass counter and he said to me,
‘Yes, don’t touch them, though.’
The rage snapped through me like venom.
‘Well, I didn’t fucking touch them, I pointed.’
I don’t think he heard my retort. I slammed the money into his hand. Some fell on the floor, which I had to stupidly bend down for.
She grabbed me gently at the arm.
‘Calm down.’
‘Who the fuck is he talking to like that?’
‘I know, he was being rude.’
Outside we sat at a table and I couldn’t let it go. My jaw and gritted teeth worked on the slice and it was gone, again, long before she had finished hers.
‘Slow down.’
‘I can’t.’
‘We only have two days left, don’t ruin it. You’re always like this, Luke. I don’t see what your issue is.’
‘I can’t explain, Jess.’
A peddler came by and shoved a collection of beaded bracelets and fake watches in my face.
‘My friend, best price.’
I shook my head firmly.
‘Look, look, my friend! I make you the best offer, only one time!’
I swatted my arm at him like he was a fly.
Her eyes went wide.
‘Luke!’
‘Fucking what? You do something about it for once. Order a drink for yourself, go to the shop by yourself, cook the food. Everything is always on me isn’t it!’
The walk home she was ahead of me crying. Not too far, though. The room key was in my bag after all.
*
I swigged a warm beer at the beach bar then went and sat next to her on the towels. Not a word spoken all morning. The sea was before me. The Adriatic. The beginning and the end of a world baked under an abundant sun which casts no shadows. The mountains of Otok Uglyan on the other side towered up and gave the impression that from all sides one was hemmed in.
I swam out front crawl and the salt stung my eyes. I couldn’t see anything under me but the change in shade of blue, from gin-clear to bruise-black. My arms reached forward, pulling the water back into itself. I wondered what was stopping them from working. If they might just conk out. Who was in control of my breath? Swimming is the balance of two simple mechanisms: breathing and floating. Buoyancy. The more you fight it the easier you sink. The human animal does not belong in water. The nervous system operates unnaturally. Feet kicking instead of walking. Lateral gravity. An overwhelming atmosphere of fear and helplessness.
I put my head up. A round red buoy bobbed in front of me and I grabbed it and gasped in the air. Golden sparks of sun shot off the waves. Through the dazzle and distance I couldn’t see her on the shore anymore. Below me was nothing and it went down forever.
I thought I might not make it back. With each desperate stroke my body or mind or soul might violently disappear, if only out of cosmic spite. Without having worked things through. No conclusion to the struggle. No more of her curly blonde hair, her beautiful blue eyes, the shimmering ripples of her haunches, like the reflection of a full moon in a midnight puddle, as I lay all I could of my love into her…
The water went bright and I could stand again. I stumbled over the rocks and prostrated myself down on the towel, shaking, but fine.
I turned over and touched her on the shoulder.
George Vincent is a writer from the Newcastle Upon Tyne. He used to be a chef, now he is a delivery driver. His debut chapbook “Inside the Blueberry Gown” is available from Alien Buddha Press.
