Tide
He knows she longs for him to step onto the bridge and cross over, but still he hesitates. He puts a foot onto the brittle wood. And then steps back. Then forward again, throbbing towards her, yet edging away. She stands at the opposite side of the creek, which is narrow enough to jump across; and still she seems small and separate, her dress a red splash of colour against the dense thicket. He feels his senses narrow upon her, drawn like a rushing flood to her eyes and lips. Yet he cannot cross.
His mother’s house is behind him. One room pours into the next: the edges of the kitchen lap the edges of the porch; sofas and beanbags that should be in the den leak into the sitting room. The moist Louisiana heat blurs the windows and steam rises from the vines creeping around the painted
