We are reclining in Adirondack chairs, looking over the lake on the Fourth of July. It is serene and the waters reflect the milky oranges and purples of the sky.
The fireworks rise over the hills beyond the lake, and we recline further.
I put my arm around her out of pattern. It is a gesture of affection done everywhere, yet today, I don't know what to think.
The controlled explosions light up the sky, illuminate our faces, and she dips her head onto my shoulder. I shudder, the last time I was in this arrangement I was in love, and this isn't love. But I am happy.
We joke about the fireworks, and the fireflies scoring the sky, and the fires burning on the beaches around the lake. We recline further, our soft backs against hard wood, our feet digging into the camp sand.
It is late, I've got to sit duty over my bunk tonight, on this Saturday, the Fourth of July. I turn to her ready to say this, and out of instinct, our faces peering together, I instead lean forward and find myself in a kiss.
A tremble.
We are two on a beach in the evening, and we recline.
As we walk back, our hands slide together. They are different from the hands of one I used to hold, but I find comfort in them.
What do I make of myself?
It won't last beyond a week, but I do all I can to not think of it.
