One Evening to Stroll the Fountain

Updated: 2 days ago.

Fountain, early 1920s, The Art Institute of Chicago

By Talia Ducat

I see the spout force the stream up away from itself, crashing down back into the basin

and circulating its gurgles are muddied with detritus. He walks from one side of the fountain to the

other. I want to move, but the pavement is in the way. How can I let myself say things that are nothing but ugly memories? We are not the same every time there is no place we are, but I want to be here still, where the skin of the water is and to be looking at it, too–– such a dry thing.

I watch him shift weight forward, making distance and backward returning again. He puts his elbows on his thighs, the current is not moving, for he opens his mouth to cleave the unspoken, but we are both neglecting the dark light between the trees. Why do I return to him as one would to a

fortune teller? There is no outline of fate, but I need it where the skin of the water is and to be

discovering the future–– too near a thing. I observe the glare of the submersible lights, and the shards

undulate across the surface in revolving patterns. I would extend myself across the pathway, but

there are things he cannot see in the way. When can I learn what will resolve my nerves? I

want to coalesce where the skin of the water is and knowledge, too–– a lustful thing.

I pay attention to the tight, shrinking motion of the chest that occurs. A leaf blows past, or, I may as

well say that it does. I would fill the distance with the expression of my opinion, but the growth

of dread strikes at the root of it all. How can you trust me as I continue to prefer untruths? The

fountain spits at us hard where the skin of the water is and wanting, too––an honest thing. I

notice myself repeating old phrases that I then realize he does not enjoy; the false amendments

are made to justify the tension. I double back and over, he would linger, but the night has become

old. How can we alter things that have not happened? I am never letting a small thing come to an

end. There is no version wherein I stop him from leaving here, where the skin of the water is and

performing an avalanche, too––a damn brave thing.