While the moon took over the sun’s shift that had gone on long over the summer day and seemed never-ending, Kilguard and Sandy were walking down along the concrete boat ramp, down to the water’s edge. And we were watching. Not because there was anything perverted or strange about it, but because we had been curious about them for a long time. And we could see it in the way Kilguard, who had gotten that name as a child in kindergarten after a series of soft crimes, was walking, his hips swaying the way they did when he swindled older women for drinks in low-lit bars. He was kicking his left foot slightly outward in her direction, the bitten heel of his snake boots making a soft scraping sound that we also recognized. Sandy was his complete opposite, speaking a language of little fidgets with her pitch hair, the other hand tucked at her lower back, where it also rubbed back and forth, between pointer and middle fingers, the hem of her eyelet blouse. Their lips moved but we could hear nothing as we craned our necks over the crown molding of the bay window, our foreheads leaned on the cold glass that left little ovals on our skin, pale and yellow. Sandy kept looking around too much, her head swiveling back and forth as though pushed by the early evening breeze while Kilguard followed it, two eyes keen against the tanned edge of soft shoulder, wiring hand, skittish feet. We watch while he comes to a stop at the end of the ramp, right where the water begins to leave its dark leftover that comes and goes, and Sandy takes half a second longer to copy. She takes a few steps farther than him, her head spinning back at him, while one foot hovers nowhere. We all take a deep breath. We all watch the lips and try to decipher something we are all too young to understand, because Kilguard and Sandy are a couple of years older than us, at least three, and Kilguard and Sandy know everything about life and work and how to die properly without a fuss. They know why the world seems to end right at the edge of town, where the sun becomes beating red, pulsating, waiting to eat us with teeth gnashing. They know the best way to survive lives such as our own, bordered by lake weeds and soft gunmetal, is to make use of the small pieces that make it bearable. The weekly lottery ticket. The marina. They know this because we have seen them laying in the grass, staring up at the sky and imagining what it would be like to live. But none of us have ever done such a thing, so we watch as Kilguard takes a step closer, one callused hand coming up to the side of her neck where an artery pumps blood as fast as it can, his lips in a smile that’s slightly snarled, like the wolves we’ve seen bloody and curled up on the side of the Old Number Six highway. And as though he were just that thing, grey and mangled by tires as dark as Sandy’s hair, she backs away with disgust. She grimaces, and so do we; not out of disgust for Kilguard, but for the disappointment in knowing they wouldn’t at least embrace. That was the fun in it, after all. That feeling of dying and living all at once, watching the ceiling turn into collards and paper mache, wondering what else your life could have been.
Alexis Clifton is a Native (Lipan Apache, Wixárika) and Spanish writer currently studying at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She has been previously published with award-winning creative writing in The Amazine, Cellar Door, and more. She loves bonfires, canceling plans, fried catfish, and laying in the sun. If you can't find her, try the local bookstore.