A Story About John

R. D. Kushner

He sits as still as the water around him. He is floating, silently. The widening chasm between what he has, and what he wants, looms like a great fissure in time and space. He thinks that eventually it will come to him; he thinks this as he reels in yet another empty fish hook at the end of a long line of other failures.

It is still dark. He sits and listens. He hears his own heart beating, he hears the cold air whistle in and out of his nostrils, and in the distance, out of sight, he hears a fish jump; or more precisely, he hears the sound of a fish which had jumped. He hears its body strike the water after having leapt momentarily into a completely inhospitable world.

John inhales to fill his lungs. He holds his breath and imagines the fish hanging in the air, with a mouthful of poisonous gas. He tries to imagine the sensation of the cool air against its scales and then the welcoming sensation of falling back into the familiar embrace of its aqueous home. He reaches over the side of the boat and dips his fingers into the mirrored surface of the lake and watches his hand disappear into its own reflection.

He removes his hand from the water and places it over his eyes. Streams of water run down his arm inside his flannel shirt to his elbow, as he wipes his wet hand down the length of his face as if trying to remove some layer of filth that might clear his mind. He opens his eyes. Nothing has changed. The water on his face mixes with his tears.