Good, Not Great

Because I was drowning, several strong young men ran into the water. Had it not been for the froth of the waves, not one would have seen me. I was as if glass, untempered, smooth and dipped in an oil. And not just the skin of my wrists, my greying lips. They didn't see vascular roots thrashing in the suggested shape of a man, or the folds of my organs trying to keep themselves afloat. I was the ghostwhisp in the way of tomorrow's headlines, bold thirty-two point script crying the language of local heroes and upstanding citizens, with color prints of themselves smiling beneath the byline. I was their affirming key; they each knew that he was a hero, a man of virtue unquestioned. The one who reached me first was a handsome thing, no older than myself. Bronzed by a love of outdoor air, leaned from activity and natural exuberance; he could have been carved by the Greeks. He dragged me onto the beach, and the sunburnt tourists ringed us in. I wanted to believe they were concerned if I would again draw air and walk around them as a thing living. They wanted to watch my savior turn me into a Lazarus. After a moment of resuscitation, I sputtered a lungful of Lake Michigan into his face. He laughed, wiped it off, and gave me a good-natured grin. He was perfect. I could hardly have expected otherwise.

Our spectators clapped and moved back to their beach blankets, to their sun and grocery story novels. A girl started talking to my savior, calling him all manners of brave. She was gorgeous in the way that steals young hearts and makes timid little boys want to die. Her fingers moved from her sides and traced little circles across his chest. She bit her lip; blushed when he smiled all teeth.  Earlier, she had giggled at my jokes. Had seemed impressed that I could do fancy dives off the pier and into the darkness between rocks.