A stone's throw away

The lone figure of Amy sits at the edge of the ancient, rotting dock, her legs dangling inches above the surface of the lake. Her reflection in the calm water is distorted by the quiet drops of tears running down her face. Softly sniffling, she wipes her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. In the fading light of the sun disappearing behind the thicket of trees surrounding the lake, she sees her frightened, puffy face, trying to gather some courage.

With her palms firmly planted against the cold wood, Amy slowly pushes herself forward, her legs dropping lower. Her body trembles, and tears stream down her face uncontrollably. She pulls herself back and curls up on the dock, sobbing into her knees. The sun completely disappears behind the trees, and rays of light and shadows pattern the lake in shades of blue, black, and orange.

Amy calms down, wipes her face with both sleeves, and takes a deep breath. Getting on all fours, she crawls to the edge of the dock and looks at herself again. She sways forward and backward, clutching the wood hard enough to turn her knuckles red. She sees the despair in her red, swollen eyes and the look of unending defeat pervasive across her face. Her grip loosens, and she looks at herself in disgust, conceding defeat.

The contemptuous look is shattered by a stone hitting the water with a thunderous thump, splattering Amy. Startled, she slips and falls into the lake, screaming. She thrashes about, yelling at the top of her lungs, but as her arms tire, she starts to sink. Watching the bubbles from her mouth and nose rise, she cries before blacking out.

Amy vaguely hears a muffled voice. It’s sweet. It’s soothing. She senses that it's saying something to her, and she wants to hear it. Suddenly, she knows how to swim and moves toward the voice in the dark. She knows she’s getting closer as the voice grows louder and clearer, but she remains surrounded by darkness. Panicking, she pushes harder against the water—until she no longer can. Silence. Darkness.

Something grabs her and pulls her up. She breaks the surface.

Amy wakes up violently, coughing water out of her lungs.

A pair of warm hands holds her face, and a voice asks if she’s okay. She hears him clearly, but she can’t respond, mesmerized by the young man’s beautiful face coming into focus. He looks like an angel—without wings. And he’s wet, wearing a black t-shirt under a leather jacket and a pair of jeans.

“I’m sorry! I was just fooling around,” he says earnestly. “Never in a million years would I have thought the stone would hit someone. Are you okay?”

Amy smiles weakly. “I think I’m better now.”

The young man removes his jacket and wraps it around Amy. “I’m Conan.”

“Amy,” she replies softly.

“Do you live nearby?” he asks. He walks Amy home, and they exchange numbers before he leaves.

That’s how Amy first met Conan.

A few days pass and Amy starts to smile again, even when alone. Every day, she waits for Conan at the dock, gazing at the woods, sometimes for hours hoping he will show up. Her finger hovers over the call button restlessly but she does not dare hit it. Eventually, he emerges from the thicket of trees bearing a glowing smile and a little something in his arms. His every step toward her makes her heart beat faster. An overwhelming feeling engulfs Amy only for Conan to sit beside her and gently dispel it. Hours go unnoticed until his phone rings and he has to leave. 

One evening, it is almost dark but Conan does not show up. A worried and anxious Amy digs deep and finally finds it in her to call Conan for the first time. After a couple rings, he picks up.

“Are you okay?” Amy says softly with concern. “I got…. a little…. worried. It’s almost dark and –”

“Sorry, I slept,” Conan says sheepishly. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

There is a long pause of silence.

“Amy? You there?”

“Yeah” she replies shakily, “I… I missed you.”

There’s another pause of silence.

“I better get going,” says Amy.

“No, please wait. I want to see you. I missed you too.” 

“Ah, hmmm, okay” says Amy, trying to sound unaffected. ‘How long will it take you?”

A short pause of silence follows.

“A stone’s throw away.”

Amy smiles and sits back down. 

Twenty minutes later, Conan shows up with a posy of flowers.

As the full moon ascends, they settle into a deep conversation, saying less with words and more with looks. Moments are spent in silence gazing into each other’s eyes when awkward realizations dawn on them and they look away, filling the silence with the spoken word. During one such awkward moment, Conan gets up and skips a rock on the lake, sending circular ripples glowing in the moonlight, across the water surface. 

“That was beautiful” says an enchanted Amy.

“Come on. You try” says Conan, offering his hand.

Grabbing it, Amy says, “I’ve never skipped rocks before.”

Pulling her up, Conan replies, “I’ll show you.”

He shows her what type of rock they should look for – a flat one, puts it in her palm, and guides her by the arm, showing his technique. Amy tries to get it right all the while trying to hide her blushed face. After tracing her arm along an arc for a few swings, Conan lets her go and Amy lets go. The rock skips and skips, patterning the water in glittering, concentric circles, extending from the edge of the dock to the center of the lake in a vanishing arc. 

“Wow” exclaims Conan as Amy jumps up clapping. Once the rock disappears into the darkness, Conan turns to find Amy dancing – c-walking with the flowers in hand, oblivious to his glance.

Unintentionally, in her stride her eyes move past him and she stops abruptly in embarrassment. With arms and legs together, she side-glances Conan who stares right at her with an approving smile. 

“I didn’t know you could dance,” says Conan.

Turning towards him, Amy replies in a low voice, “I… I’m a dancer.”

“Really?” says Conan, “How come you never told me?”

“It never came up.”

Conan nods his head. “My bad. I should’ve asked. Why don’t you teach me?”

“To… to dance?” asks a dubious Amy.

“Yeah. Why not? Besides, you owe me for teaching you to skip.”

“O… okay” says Amy, not sure where to start, looking here and there, stepping sideways and back and unsure what to do with the flowers.

Conan places his hands on her shoulders, signaling her to calm down, grabs the flowers and places them down and takes her hands in his. “Now, go!”

Amy smiles brightly yet delicately and begins to move her arms in his, in neat, intentional movements. At the same time, she guides him with his feet to move in sync with her arms. On the edge of the dock, in the dancing reflection of the moonlight from the lake, surrounded by an audience of rustling trees, Conan and Amy move in a smooth, elegant circle, conscious only of each other. 

The sound of a speeding car on the other side of the trees brings them to reality and they stop. Amidst the sudden stillness of their surroundings, they stand rooted like statues with heaving chests, eyes locked onto each other’s, their breaths, loud and heavy, against each other. Amy notices Conan break contact when his eyes drop down to her slightly open mouth and then back to her eyes, and then back down. He slowly leans in to kiss Amy, but she steps back a little and looks away, her arms still in his. 

After a moment of strained silence, Conan lets go of Amy and backs away. Not looking at her, he gulps hard and clears his throat, covering his mouth. 

“It’s kinda late. I ne… need to go” says Conan and walks away. She tries to find the words to say, to make him turn back, but all she could do is watch him disappear into the woods.

The next day, Amy sits on the dock long after dusk. It’s a cloudy night with the moon barely visible, enveloping the lake in darkness. Finally, after wrestling with the thought for hours, a dejected Amy decides to head home. On her way, she chides herself for not walking Conan home at least once during the last couple weeks.

She hits the pillow immediately, without changing and with an empty stomach — she doesn’t feel like eating, much less like cooking. Before she tries to fall asleep, she opens Conan’s contact on her phone and thinks about texting him. About waiting for him until then, about missing him dearly, about the previous day, and so much more. Eventually, she sends a “hey” and places the phone to the side. She closes her eyes hoping to hear it buzz and when it doesn’t, opens her eyes to check if the screen lights up. A few too many times Amy goes on before succumbing to sleep.

On waking up without a queue, a moment later, Amy rushes to grab her phone, accidentally knocking it to the floor. She hangs down from her waist to pick up the phone but she finds no reply. Sighing, she looks at the time - 3:17. She gets back up and sinks into the bed, the phone on the floor. She doesn’t fall asleep again but stays in bed almost until the afternoon when she feels something hard in her pants. Reaching into her pocket, she finds one of the stones Conan had picked up for her the day before when he taught her to skip. 

Amy whips up a quick meal, gets changed and heads out. She walks in the direction Conan left after he dropped her. She has no idea where she is going and wanders around aimlessly hoping to run into him. Walking and walking, she scours streets, surveys cafes and stores through the windows, forces herself into crowds, ignores uncomfortable glances from strangers, fights the urge to give up, and walks some more. Until her legs hurt enough to make her stop.  

Resting her arms on her bent, shaking knees, Amy’s on the verge of tears. A deep, gravelly voice close by asks “Are you okay?”. 

Startled, Amy jerks away, tripping against the edge of the pavement. Staggering from her weak legs, she’s unable to regain her balance. About to fall, she’s caught by a pair of tender, wrinkly arms. Grateful, Amy looks up to find a woman, old enough to be her grandmother, in a polka-dotted frock, trying to hold Amy’s weight. 

An old man, bald with streaks of grey hair above the ears and a Dali moustache, holding the bronze, engraved end of a wooden cane, looking at her through round-rimmed glasses, asks her again, “Are you okay, young lady?”

“It’s obvious she isn’t. Let’s get her seated first” says the old woman in a raspy yet warm voice. As she leads Amy to a sidewalk bench, tilting her head awkwardly backward, she calls out “Frank, pick up my purse. I dropped it.”

“I’m picking it up,” replied the old man, groaning.

The old woman asks the young couple on the bench to vacate and helps Amy sit. The couple offer Amy some water, which she’s about to refuse, but the old woman grabs it, opens the cap on the bottle and helps Amy drink. The old woman empties the remaining water into her own mouth, thanks the couple, handing them the bottle and tells them to dispose of it. Before Amy can thank them, they leave. 

Frank walks up to sit next to Amy, but the old woman jumps in and winks at him with a mischievous smile. Frank frowns, handing the purse to her with fake force. “Are you feeling better, child?” he asks, shifting to a concerned smile.  

“Ye… Yeah, thank you” says Amy, unsure of how to act or react.

“How are you going to go home? Where do you live though? Should I call a cab? No, I’ll call my son. Frank, call Richa— ”

“No! No! It’s fine,” says Amy, her voice finally opening out. “I… I just need to rest a… a bit.”

“Shall we stay for some time, Frank?” asks the old woman. 

“Sure, we can. It’s not like we’ve got jobs to get to,” says the old man.

Ignoring his comment, the old woman continues, “I’m Miriam. What’s your na—”. Miriam finds Amy gazing at a poster across the street for a dance camp.

“You like to dance?” asks Miriam. 

Amy nods, looking away from the poster.

“I used to dance in my younger days,” says Miriam thoughtfully. 

Reaching into her purse, she says, “Frank, why don’t you get her a form?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got my wallet,” says the old man, turning around. 

Amy gets up immediately and stops the man. “It’s okay. I can get it myself, Sir.”

“Are you sure? Are you okay?” asks the man.

“I’m feeling much better,” says Amy. “Thanks for all your help.”

She bows to the both of them and scrambles across the street to the dance studio. Nervous and unsure of whether to go in or not, she stands rooted in front of the poster for a few seconds and then looks back. The couple smile at her, their teeth and the lack of, visible on their wrinkly, pale exterior. She smiles back noticeably enough and heads into the studio.

Immediately after stepping inside, she feels out of place. The automatic door shuts behind her, and her connection to the comforting familiarity of the outside is lost. The high-end interior - the paneled walls, ambient lighting, classical music, smooth, polished surfaces - makes her feel nauseous and squirmy. Her instinct screams at her to get out, that she couldn’t survive this place. 

A lady in a sleeveless crop top and baggy shorts appears out of nowhere and invites Amy in, leading her by the arm to the lounge chair. Before Amy could process or respond, she hands a small booklet and starts explaining about the camp and its offerings, and a unique opportunity for the talented to work on a major musical film. 

“I can tell you can dance,” she says, “You have that swagger in your step and that grace in your being. I can tell having worked with talented individuals like you for years now.”

Smiling weakly, Amy asks, “How…. How much…. does it cost?”

The number almost throws Amy out of her chair. Seeing her dazed, the lady says she’ll get Amy a glass of water while she can think about it, reiterating that “a talented dancer like her deserves a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

When the lady is out of earshot, Amy grabs the booklet and scurries outside. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she looks over at the bench across the street. The old couple are seated close together and are conversing, maybe even arguing. It is hard for Amy to tell as Miriam is the one mostly talking and Frank mostly reacts and responds. She thinks about slipping away but they catch her watching them and wave at her. Amy waves back the booklet and leaves. A few metres away, just before turning right, she looks back. Miriam’s head lies on Frank’s shoulder and he’s got his arm around her. They are no longer talking — their mouths are smiling and their faces are serene, with their eyes occasionally glancing at each other in sync, communicating volumes that cannot be said through mere words. Amy smiles wistfully before disappearing into the crowds.

After a long, aching walk, Amy reaches her humble abode. Against the background of the darkening sky and the shadows of the taller building around falling on it, her house adds to her gloom. Despite her legs cramping, she continues to trod on towards the lake. Ten minutes later, she stops to rest against one of the trees surrounding the lake, panting. The pain in her legs is awful and she regrets not staying home. Just then, the sound of stone against water catches her attention. Ignoring the stinging in her legs, she stumbles out of the woods into the clearing of the lake. Seated on the edge of the dock, Conan is fiddling with a bunch of stones. Amy begins to run, almost falling twice. Hearing the sound of arrhythmic feet against damp wood, Conan gets up turning around. Amy is too caught up in the moment to notice his uncharacteristic timorous demeanour. “The other day…. I want to apol—”

Amy shuts him with a deep kiss, her hands holding onto his face dearly. For an instant, Conan stiffens, but almost immediately melts into her lips, kissing her back with a passionate tenderness. The moment doesn’t last long and they withdraw gingerly, opening their eyes simultaneously into each other’s. Conan is back to his usual self but with a glint of affection in his gaze. Amy feels it  in her heaving chest but her mind starts to wander to familiar places of doubt and regret. “I’m sweaty. Do I smell? What’ve I done? Am I looking desperate?” A tonne of questions pops up in her head and she starts to turn pale.

Conan tends to all her questions with a gentle smile. “I  was going to say sorry, for the other day, but I guess I’m actually thankful that it happened.”

A relieved Amy smiles back weakly, the color returning to her face. Suddenly, her legs buckle but Conan catches her by the waist.

“What happened?” he asks with a genuine look of concern.

“I just need to sit down. I’ve been walking all day.”

Helping her to get seated, he asks, “Why?”

“I was…. looking for you.” 

Amy blushes, her lips faintly quivering. Conan’s eyes widen and his jaw drops slightly. Slowly, his gaze drops and his lips curl into a subtle smile. He carefully lifts Amy’s legs and places them on his lap. Amy watches him bemused as he removes her footwear and begins to massage her ankles. In the silence that ensues, they never stop smiling, occasionally exchanging looks of fondness. 

A flash of light appears overhead. As she watches the trail of the shooting star with tearful eyes and a fulfilled heart, she whispers to herself with profound hope. 

On that night she had her first kiss, Amy wished to not be alone ever.

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