Nicole’s Bio:

Nicole Waskie has been writing in one form or another since the age of two, when she would dictate her poetic masterpieces to her mother whilst she languished in the bathtub. Such gems as “Mascara Face” (Nicole’s first epic poem about the trials and tribulations of makeup removal) have since evolved into a deep-seated desire to express herself through the written word and an obsession with flash fiction (which may or may not have something to do with her jam-packed schedule and short attention span) though she aspires to write a novel in due time. Nicole currently works as an elementary school library media specialist and cheerleading coach, and furiously pens sentences on receipts and napkins whenever inspiration strikes.

Her e-mail is nnwaskie[at]gmail[dot]com, and she would love to hear from you!

The Last First

By Nicole Waskie

 

You can rent paddle boats at the park, long lines of faded blue and cracked plastic tied forlornly to a rotting wood dock. The shack just off the water houses sunburned teenagers, usually two, since one can’t be trusted to manage the dock and the money. They are caricatures of themselves, the taste of last night in their mouths, the youth of an alternate Rockwellian universe. They are tired, like the building that holds them, the dock they watch over, the drooping fronds in the stagnant lake water. The shorter one, sweat stains on his purple and green park-issue polo, leads you out onto the green-gray wood. Apathetic, he kicks the boat away from the dock.

Out on the murky water, the sky gazes down at its grimy doppelganger, a reflection in a long-neglected mirror found in some nameless attic. You drift, then thinking of sweat stains staring from the too-close shore, you pedal. The breeze quickens, lifting your hair at the collar. The feeling is reminiscent of things long past, and not thought about.

Like Mark Twain, you riverboat past the brightness of the open water, heading for the emerald coolness of the shadowed back coves. You recall a time under the verdant deep green, the trees bending to greet the water in formal gestures no longer used. You were laughing, legs aching from fervent cycling. No one had to remind you then what one does in a boat. He took your hands in his, serious, his eyes all questions and intensity, until you dropped your lashes like your mother showed you. He held his breath, the cessation of air felt in the stiffening of fingertips, the sudden stillness next to you in the molded plastic seats.

In that instant, a maniacal feeling passed through you, an urge to pedal, or jump, or tip the boat over, anything to end the terrible anticipation, to escape. He was leaning in, you sat too still, and it was too late. Yet, as he inched forward and the inevitability became apparent, oh, suddenly, impossibly, you wanted nothing more than to stop the breeze and the rocking, to linger in the instant of the imminent kiss, to remain embroiled in the purgatory of the kiss, not yet touching, not yet pulling away.

Once his too-dry lips had receded, your face burned, and you felt like crying. The unbearable moment had passed. It was forever gone, that unfathomable second, the line between lips not-touched and touched. The force was unstoppable. It was over, and would always be over.

You rest your head on the plastic, and the intolerable expectancy seizes you, an aching that pulsates in your stomach and radiates outward, same as that day in the boat long ago. Dimly, back on the virescent dock, the decaying wood, you hear the sound of a distant whistle, calling you to shore. Not today. The whistle means nothing. All that matters is in this moment, the dripping cove, the secret shadow, the impending stop.

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