9.14.13

They rounded the top of sugarloaf and felt a distinct settling in their bones. Below them were scattered lights of the wetted city, and around them were tufts of thick rolling fog, but within them a deep calm that comes from a day spent with your pant legs rolled up, her flannel tied in a purposeful knot above her navel, him with wild hair that she had wound around itself in a hitch at the nape of his neck (she kissed the place below it, a warm film of sweat and his scent, after she had fastened his hair with elastic), both of them bent over old mops and rags, checking the hose for flow, watching the lake under their stairwell sink slowly, listening for the clack of the generator and the methodical whir of the sump pump and the precise path of water leftover, searching as droplets joined together to form muddied streams in their living room, combining forces to arrowhead across the stone and settle in the depressions between each perfect piece of rock. Later she would press the last of their paper towels to the puddles, watching the same droplets be lifted from their resting place and spread like a quiet fear across a dampening piece, but for now she was content with the work they had done, was content with his ethic made clear by the firm line his mouth made while he swept, was content, as she rarely was, with herself.

It had been three days they spent in solitude as the world fell in rain around them, settled in peace on top of the hill they watched from afar as roads collapsed, surveyed photos of cars swept away and heard of bridges giving out in the canyon. They huddled that first night together, with a lantern they spooned up chicken and dumplings, she had collected basil from the garden and was pleased with its soft bite (what promising foliage) they hooked their elbows, pointed and dripping, around each other and arranged themselves with laughter under a single umbrella, looked out into dark mist. She pressed her chin into his chest and he lifted his free hand to drag on a lit cigarette, for once she didn’t mind the smell, she was pleased with the closeness he allowed.

It had been three days and the time passed so warmly and slowly, their good shoes on the shelf to stay dry above the floor, pots and pans she placed outside to be washed in the rains, thick socks stuffed in their boots as they surveyed the state of the house- water rising in the bathroom and under the dryer, the last of their good towels stuffed under the fridge and in cracks that lead to rooms beyond. Once, directly overhead, they heard a helicopter and she pushed off of her side to watch in wonder the underbelly of the thing passing over the deck. They knew it was headed to Jamestown to rescue the two hundred and some people who, when trying to evacuate a day before, had found no access to dryer ground.

It had been three days and somewhere in the middle they had lost power, towards the end of a movie the lights started flickering and suddenly everything closed up into a soft grey darkness. The pump quieted under the stairwell, they knew the water would find its way on to the bricks soon, and they were so pleased to have harnessed earlier the solar energy stored in batteries in the laundry room. The system was old and shut off frequently, so they had to sit near to re-connect the pump each time it gave out. She climbed on top of the pile of furniture- they had stacked it in the corner, chairs on top of rugs, the borrowed sewing machine, her beloved Aztec painted ladder- wound her limbs around themselves and settled neatly to read the Yoga Sutras, him pleased yet concerned and across the room planted on the piano bench, reading the Calvin and Hobbes he had been rapt with in childhood. Close enough to the generator, they’d lift their eyes from their books each time it went out and nod their heads towards the pump, your turn and the one would get up with a sigh, flip the switch, settle back in to their pages, watch the water level drop slowly.

It had been three days and they had built a comfortable rhythm, living in each others back pockets, waking to see the others eyes opening under folds of white down, sharing modest meals and clay mugs filled with boxed red wine, a noiseless and docile sweep of his large hand on her bare shoulder, her slight collarbone, as he passed to the next room. She loved that unconscious collection of his sentiment towards her, so grounded and small she felt under his rough hand, her skin warming underneath, as he moved throughout the house- a slight touch as if to say stay here, you are good here, I like the feel of you here. She was sure she had told him before, once among the many things, how good it felt to make him proud. He liked to gaze downwards at her, she’d lift navy eyes up to him-offered herself, it stirred him. Yes, three days had passed in this understanding of each other and now they were rounding the top of the mountain, looking below as Boulder flooded, and she was sad to know this too was passing (as all things do) and very soon they would be swept along with it, the land drying out in harsh sun, nothing clouded in solitude for long.