She noted to herself that the man lounging next to her was silent as a fish, which was unusual.
She contemplated whether to catch that fish and throw it into her life, or leave it catching its breath on the shore for another woman to claim it in her waters.
The beer filled his guts, sending relaxing waves through his body. The gigolo in him glanced at her discreetly from under his sunglasses and suddenly, story followed. He was his usual chatty act now.
“My best friends’ father was an honest man, true to himself. Once at fishing he told us—we were teenagers then—‘When a man cannot limit himself, the world will do it to him. If he cannot decline spoils and pleasures voluntarily, he will feel the consequences from the outside. He has to learn control of his tongue and then his private parts. The key for learning how to gain respect with people lies in women’s hands.
‘Your life is to become a solid surface. The purpose of your life is to endure hardships: to make you harder, to withstand her currents, to channel them. These ships take you on the journeys, face winds of wisdom, wealth and glory, sail you through the storms, crash to be rebuilt again. You are the rock or so you choose to think. You may as well be more of a river bank or sea shore.
‘She is the stream, river or waterfall, whichever way nature made her. Hardships push you to the edge—the cliff of life from which you are afraid to fall. At those times you will wish to have means to glide, as long as you avoid the fearsome feeling of rejection, otherwise, you can’t help it but fall into her waters, into love. If the fall itself was not exhilarating enough, the dip in water surely will invigorate the senses, make you feel.
‘There may surely be a swamp for you to sink into, the still-standing waters breeding malice, the smell of a disgusting acidic burp. You may have well have deserved it! You will strain your neck to stay afloat so she does not swallow you in one of those treacherous vortexes that others before you have created.
‘She engulfs and touches you, caresses, polishes, splashes with joy, cools with the breeze of temper. It is woman’s nature to smooth our edges. She moves with life, she is alive and lives to move.
‘She has one goal ahead: to flow. It’s how she experiences life, freedom, change. Flow to the ocean—her birthplace and homeland, that which contains her children, loved ones, treasures and shadows of drowned souls as remnants of the wrecked partnerships and friendships—-the magnet of unity.
‘Listen to an old fisherman. Oh, she’s powerful. The wild currents of her spirit and boiling juices of her body may frighten you. Indeed, you’ll seek control. Don’t build across her flow, do it alongside. Pave her the way, streamline her direction, venture to assess her depth. Eventually she will reveal her nature—a true gift to you. Support it.
‘Shallow waters afford easy trespass to opportunists. Those are seductive, but beware. Depth is her true magic—her allure in breathless dance. Her endlessness, just like the universe itself, is an illusion your mind can not contain—thus it stalls in hesitation. If you never launched on an expedition of your own, you surely will fear hers…
‘She will invite you to build bridges, boats and harbors to carry her kids through the tides of life. So as you’ll build alongside her, you will flow with her, calming her waters. She’ll flow through you to make you a better person. As a liquid serpent, she’ll curve around and choose you as an obstacle on her destined path.
‘Her waters are both balm and venom. She asks for attention and respect to nature; she is cautious due to the ample betrayals in her weathered life. The ignorant and selfish fall prey to the sirens of her wounded heart: the shadow creatures of the past, those ruthless mermaids eager to grab and drag, to have your last exhale into their spiteful mouths.
‘What I am about to tell, my boys, is priceless as the stars themselves. When she comes into your life, ask not her but yourself:
“Am I sure I suit her? Am I the right man for this woman? Can I make her happy? Do I care for her: does she walk so as she’s weightless, a feather of happy existence, touching no ground when she’s with me? Do I want to make her happy? Do I feel happy when she is happy? And do I miss her when she is not close?”
She glanced at him and almost shouted, “Do you?”
He noticed this intensity; he also knew she’ll bite. He sat there, calm on the surface, his shaking foot revealing hesitation, doubt—it was as if he rested on a pier, his legs flipping leisurely, ankle-deep in her waters.
She knew then that he avoided water all together, except to cool the blisters on his feet, battered in between his many careless journeys.
Photo: (Moyan Brenn)