she asks.He smiles. “Just closing my eyes. It feels good to have them closed.”She lies still. Through the open window, she can hear the sound of the waves against the shore.It is black in the room, not quite a wash. There are the deeper shadows of a bureau, a bookshelf, a chair; muffled, unfamiliar shapes; the musty smell of wood eaten down by salt air.He is lying on his back. She can barely see his face. There is an ivy plant hanging in the window. She finds the shape of a heron at the edge of the plant, the ivy leaves like the folded wings of the paper birds Noel taught her how to make when she was young; their bodies in hard, creased triangles, wings bent up once, then pressed down, pulled away at an angle to mimic flight.She hears Henry’s breathing shift, and she listens for it, that deepening toward sleep. She pushes into his chest, her shoulder into the side of his rib. He is like clay in the darkness—what she knows of him, of who he is, of where he comes from, what she knows of his life apart from her, all of it is drowned out in this darkness, and they are alone, floating on this bed that is a continent, this bed that is a speck of light.She says his name quietly.
What do You think about The Season Of Open Water (2007)?
