CW: Suicide

Icarus was a woman, and I saw how the current pushed against her when she fell. 

I noticed her before the lifeguard did. I don’t think he recognized she was drowning. No one screamed out for her. Women under umbrellas were too concerned with the tabloids they held in their hands. Hungry children gathered around a picnic table, eyes fixated on the grilled hotdogs their father brought forward. She must’ve been here by herself, and yet, here I was flapping my wings to get his attention while her wings drowned under the weight of the water. 

There were no melodramatics—no feigning unconsciousness to get a kiss from a guy whose attractiveness had been exaggerated by female beachgoers. She broke from his grasp as if he hadn’t just spent the last few minutes dragging her to shore. She walked away unaffected, her coughing and sputtering the only remnant of an almost tragedy. Secondhand embarrassment washed over me as I watched eyes travel with her, but she didn’t seem to care. 

I pushed the trolley up and down the aisles. I moved my fingers along the spines and opened the spaces to which the books would wedge in between. It was muscle memory, a chore that I could do over and over again. Dewey decimal was a fun puzzle to solve and typing from the computer lab was my playlist. If I were to die tonight, I hoped being a librarian was my eternal damnation. 

Reading to the children was my favorite day of the week. Their faces replaced the looks of my parents when I told them I was abandoning the bustling city for the quiet seasides of a small town. You have so much potential, Irene is what they would say. Which is the code word for you won’t make much money, nor a house with a nice husband and three kids to show for it. Silly parents. I write my own stories—and one of them happens to end with a wife I can lay with on the beach. 

This week’s book featured families of all kinds that ranged from nuclear to same-sex to disabled. Everything that a wine mom would hate. What came second to the warmth of being surrounded by my kids, was the warmth of spreading the gay agenda. 

“Good afternoon, my friends! How are you today?”

A chorus of “good’s” sung out. I had already reached my potential. I had the kids my parents always pushed me to have. I loved my little home fit for a lesbian and her queer-coded cat. All I needed was a wife–one that a character profile could not encapsulate. 

There she was again, with black eyes and dark skin that made me love my own hue. Her head was shaved and every tattoo was coming to the surface. What was it about opposites attracting? I sped through the rest of the book, fearful that she may cut our chapter short. I don’t even think I said a proper farewell when I stood up. I was desperate to write the next page of a novel without an outline. The only issue is that I’m not too keen on dialogue. 

“Are you okay? I mean, after nearly drowning the other day.” What a wonderful start to the first chapter, Irene.

She laughed and closed her novel. 

“And here I was thinking you had a book recommendation for me.” She responded.

”Anything but Shakespeare. I hear Greek mythology is pretty sexy, though.”

Was I nailing the slow burn?

“Well, to answer your question. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but you seemed so unphased.” 

“If you’re implying that I’m suicidal, I’m not, but thank you for your concern,” She chuckled. “Have you truly lived life if you haven’t had one near-drowning experience?” 

“Some of us used flotation devices.” I could feel myself offering this dorky-looking grin.

What happened to being the mysterious, hot protagonist?

“Well, I’m going to assume you have some type of guilt about not taking off your floaties and saving me?”

“Actually, I was thinking about how only fools willingly blind themselves by looking at the sun. Have you ever read the story of Icarus?” 

“Well, why don’t you give me a better sight to see? I think the story of Irene would read better”. 

She glanced at my name tag and I suddenly remembered that I sported the style of a kindergarten teacher instead of the type of outfit you eye up at the bar. All I could do was blush because there was only so much wittiness that one scene could produce. She took the silence as an opportunity to do what librarians committed homicide over (Okay, librarians aren’t that heinous): ripped a page. It wasn’t even a random spot in the novel, it was the cover page. She conveniently had a pen, because you know, it makes the whole process of romantic escapades easier. She scribbled her number. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay the damage fee.”