Every Tuesday starts the same way. The boat sways under her feet as she puts on the slippers, the wind is calmer than it was last night, the waves lap at the shore lazily, always so forgiving. She has ten minutes. Ten minutes is enough time, ten minutes is plenty, that’s what she tells herself. That’s what she tells herself as she strolls into the kitchen, careful to savor these quiet moments. They are all she gets. The coffee brews, the bread slides into the toaster and appears again golden brown, the birds chirp and tweet and mock her anticipation. She looks out the window. She misses the sight of boats, everything from men on yachts misspending new money, to cargo ships driven by people who certainly didn’t have boating licenses, to sailboats that should’ve fallen apart last year.
She misses some more than others.
And yet steam is pouring from the coffee and the toast is buttered, and when did she butter the toast? The butter knife is in her hand, the toast is ready.
Derailed from her train of thought, she takes the plate of toast and the mug of coffee and sits at the kitchen table with only one chair, staring out the window again, numbly. When did the birds leave? It is quieter. They are getting ready, she thinks—but there is no way they could’ve known, there is no way they can escape now. Four minutes is enough time, four minutes is plenty.
When she is finished with her toast, she puts the plate in the sink, not careful with it because she will not see it again, this is not her house. Three minutes, she thinks, not even glancing at the clock—counting down is inevitable, instinctual, necessary.
A knock on the front door. She holds her breath.
Another, more forceful, less knocking but a pounding fist. She can’t move.
The knocking will not stop.
She runs to the room with the bed and heaves the window open, met by the sting of brisk spring air. She climbs out of the window and she hears the door break down and her slippers hit the sand and she runs.
Two minutes to run, that’s all she has—she finds herself in a forest, which seems impossible because there are no forests, not anymore, and she cannot see the sun through the trees. It is a relief.
She wanders deeper into the woods, and something feels so different here. The grass isn’t scorched, the trees have leaves, and something blue catches her eye. It’s water, she realizes, a small pond with lily pads and little strange-looking creatures swimming about. The word fish does not come to mind, because she has never seen one.
She settles on a rock and waits for the last minute to pass.
She watches the creatures in the water, and the last minute passes too quickly.
She waits. And waits.
The fires do not start.
Artwork by Xan.