June

David Gastil

9/21/2011

rights

June

It was 8:15, but the setting sun still peaked between postcard-perfect purple mountains. Across the sky, the fading light cast gold and crimson shadows on the towering banks of clouds blowing in over pine hills from the Atlantic somewhere beyond. Part of Samuel thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Part of him thought it looked like thunder. Whatever June thought, she did not say.

June said very little. One of her slender hands held his own in her firm drummer's grip while the other tapped arhythmically on the bench's metal arm rail. Samuel had noticed this before. When she played with her band, “Natty Britches,” she was like a freight train pounding and sliding forward with angry momentum, but here her tapping was listless and random.

What are you thinking of? He wanted to ask, but was afraid to break the silence. Instead he looked out at the small town park in front of him. Tiny ducklings followed their mother's wake across a stained glass pond. Closer to shore, elegant water lilies shared space with old beer cans and a bag of Cheetos. Then there was the blackish mud, trampled young grass, and his own muddy white sneakers, old jeans. He was wearing a vintage Pink Floyd shirt – still in good condition except for a hole in the armpit he hoped June hadn't noticed. For her part, June was wearing black converse, old jeans, and a Clash shirt. Had they always dressed alike? When they'd met maybe she'd been more of a punk or maybe he'd been less of one. 

“A man fighting a walrus,” she said. He turned to look into her ruddy oval face and followed her mascara-rimmed brown eyes back to the clouds.

“There,” he said pointing to a big gray storm cloud. Spot the cloud. It was a game they played, though it was getting too dark for it. “Swordfish in a top hat.”

They went on like that until the sun was gone and the clouds had become as dark and formless as black wool. Then they just made things up. “Puff the Magic Dragon,” “Your brother's neckbeard,” “sudden romance.” Samuel gave a little inhale of surprise as June kissed him hard on the nose, then the lips. They went on like that until the wind picked up and brought with it a sudden chill and the smell of wet pines. Reluctantly, they gathered themselves and plodded back to June's battered ochre Subaru.

They made it inside just as the first rain started and, wordlessly, June began the winding drive back to town. June's warm face was tight with concentration as she navigated the accelerating storm, but her right hand tapped the steering wheel. Even as the radio moved from Led Zeppelin's “Kashmir” to Duran Duran's “Hungry Like the Wolf,” her rhythm didn't change. June and Samuel both hated Duran Duran, but that night they didn't even notice it. They were listening to the rain beating the windshield and the distant thunder of the first storm of Summer.