JILL
There’s a cage door in front of me at the end of an informal lineup of people with coolers and bicycles, couples, a pixelated sign above my head: HANLAN’S POINT. The burr of turboprops lifting from Billy Bishop Airport amplified by the water’s surface, the undulating darkness of the lake dabbed with white blisters of foam. The piqued chatter of swallows, their enthusiastic dives and hoops.
Somehow I made it here despite yesterday’s dark blur of shame and slow recovery. Hell, I even got changed. Raw but presentable in a long-sleeved V-neck and chinos. I think they can see me, the rest of the people in line. For the first time in a while, I just don’t care. Inside me something’s rattling, worrying I’m just a broken tail light in human form; a signal to anyone paying attention that som
