Hot summer afternoons, when the humidity ties itself to
your body like a second skin, and the greatest effort is wearing the clothing
that sticks over the sweltering layers of flesh and sweat, these are perfect
for fishing down in the river.

One can feel the oppressive heat deeper than bones sinking all around them-
into the still, lukewarm water, the parched, soft ground, and down low in the
seams of your skull, where the drowsy lull it presses there makes you drift
off to transparent sleep on the bank. Your toes lap at the nonexistent
current. Dreams are easy to come by.

Here, now, there is you and a fishing line and a ratty old blanket and a
sun-baked, torpid creature whose lazy snores are the only sound, save the
lines bobbing with handmade rigs in the water. Propped on a rock are my bare
feet, the leaves on the tree above our heads casting leafy patterns on my
legs. Not much more than half or three-eighths conscious and aware, the
falling drift of my eyelashes tells you that you'd better man my pole, or
it's going to float away.

I see you, a stick in each hand, and I pull Pikachu into the crook of my bent
arm with one hand, and close my eyes with a smile that defies Heaven for this
moment of peace. Movement, after all, produces heat. It is hot, so let's not
move, ok?

Who are we kidding, friend? There aren't any fish in this river- they've all
swum far away, long ago, with Arctic dreams of cool water again to some
smaller, shadier nook out there. Beyond the road, glimmering with heat, there
is a puddle like melted ice where fat, stupid-looking Magikarp splash each
other and live out impossibly long, useless lives. Does it bother you to be
controlling not one, but *two* poles that have no hope of catching a thing?

Somehow, I doubt it. You would rather be in that puddle too, drowning in the
good coldness of it all, but who wants to lug a backpack, five Pokeballs, a
picnic lunch, and a whiny redhead all that way? Here is suitable. Now is fine.

At any given point during this endless afternoon, I may just find myself
falling through the brownish-tinted dandelions that wonder when the water, so
close, will come to them, and landing in some hazy oasis, some cool vista
beyond being awake, and I'll lay as still as I can, to isolate the feeling.

Will you sleep? No, of course not, someone (who must be unthinkably
ambitious) could skulk by and steal our worldly possessions and disappear
into the scoured blue sky- besides, you now have not one, but two fishing
poles to attend to.

Thirty-one days hath July, and August too, and it's only late June. Summer
could go on forever, conceivably. Can you imagine more than four months, just
lying here, waiting for the fish to come?

Even beyond where they are all hiding, there are troublesome realities, like
stores and Gyms and fried fish shacks where you don't have to go through the
trouble, just fork over a few coins and you can get your very own salty,
greasy slab of take-out to burn your mouth on. The only place you can't get
sunburned, of course.

Does any of that matter? I don't think it exists. I think that the world has
fallen away beyond this river bank, this tree, with roots stretching out to
nowhere, and this square of the water, blue and tepid and empty and a very
empty thing. No troubles. No responsibilities. Nowhere to go.

It could be a blessing or a curse, just watching the world go by without
stirring an inch. It could all be a dream, after all.

I tilt my head fractionally, and look to where you lean, propped against the
tree trunk, two fishing poles in your hands, your cap drawing shadows for a
select few weeds beneath the stubbly blanket-

You have, of course, nodded off.

Let the poles float away. Let's take another nap, and see if the fish come
back.
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