Lake water

We were in beach chairs, working on our sunburns, when I had this vision:

My body full of lake, water lapping in my ears, in sync with his thrusts. The more he fucked me, the more came out of me, until he was soaked, until we were both soaked, until the bed’s red blanket looked black and lake water poured down to the apartment below, so much so the neighbor pounded the ceiling with a broom. But the broom turned to seaweed, the neighbor dissolved. We surged. When I opened my mouth to moan, he looked inside and saw I was a lake, teeming alive and full. We fucked harder. I kissed him, he drank me, and we undulated until we were inundated in cloudy living sweetwater.

I looked over at him in his beach chair. I felt sun on my knees, sweat in my hair. I touched his hand, we stood.

We stepped into the lake.


Gretchen Uhrinek is a Pittsburgh-based writer. Her work can be found in The Longridge Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Philosophical Idiot, and elsewhere.

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