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The tips of his fingers touched my skin. He closed his eyes. I gripped the splintered bench. His fingers clasped the sides of my feet. With my stockings off, he separated my toes and examined them one by one. I wiped my eyes. His hands warmed my feet. He reached back for my shoes, loosened the laces, and pulled up the tongues. The hollow bunion holes and comforting arch supports made me smile. He sprang up from his squat, and with a furtive gesture, pushed my stockings into the pocket of his pants. He nodded, and then flapping his arms, pointed to the tea shop.
Maybe the tea shop was about to close. Warm tea would feel good, and Jennifer would be none that wiser that her hypothermic grandmother had almost drowned. Giddy with relief, I stopped at the first table. A waiter brought apple tea in a glass cup, two cubes of sugar, and a tiny spoon. He smiled and looked in my eyes. I stretched my legs and leaned back. Learning to speak the language was what I had always loved about being in a new posting: Warmed by the tea, I watched Jennifer and Mehmet slog back through the water. Wet from the waist down, Jennifer sat on the bench, and the old man knelt before her.
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The waiter arrived with tea. Steam rose from the glasses. At the distant opening of the canyon, a fireball of light hovered above the water, and I thought of the River Styx, the underground stream into which all life disappears. As if accidentally, Jennifer let her foot graze his. I can move feet if in your way. I remembered the footsie dance. Mehmet shouted to the waiter.
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The tea appeared before me. Clinging to the sheer rock wall were shrubs with dark green leaves and white blossoms. Like paper torn in squares, a cloud of butterflies floated above our heads. Blown by the breeze, the butterflies drifted away. I settled into my pillow, picked up my tea, and took a sip. Framed by rock walls, far down the canyon a persimmon sun hung above an indigo stream. Through sinews, sliding down the aorta, veering around the vena cava, trekking over the mountain tops of the atrium and entering the pulmonary artery. Swoosh into the vacuum of your right ventricle, down, down, down into your hungry depths, the pressure pounding in my own blue veins, into the Tunnel of Approach.
Bright, bright distant lights casting shadows on the scarlet cavern walls. There are JB, Barrett, and Michael on the shiny tiled floors of your high school, drinking vodka in the woods and on couches in the basement. There are Ryan and Caroline on their wedding day, white-dressed and tuxedo-adorned, rejoicing on the steps of the red brick Baptist chapel. The girls you loved before me standing shyly in the corner. Then I see myself in a wool hat at sunrise. Tiny infinite shards of absolute fluorescent perception. And with further approach impossible I seek desperately to squint against the glare but catch only a glimpse of them.
Plywood, metal, and mortar rising haphazard from the dust, hemmed on three sides by a trash dump: