I convince you to swim. You skeptically pile your clothes on the dock. I'm already diving down, bursting lungs, eyes wide, in the green lukewarm lake. The water ticks with motorboat propellers. Waves splash over my head, water in my nose.ears.eyes; I smile at you and dive under to pull your toes. I know you're only in the water because I asked you to.

Around the firepit I doubt you even more. Your friends are all mixed up, messed up. Even after the calming of the licorice-sweet weed I am bored by what you talk about, what they talk about. I'm not like you. I stop talking altogether because I can't say anything without sounding toosmart or smartass.

I ask for my keys, stowed safely in your pocket, and I sit in the van. I watch the lake, wondering if I have it in me to drive away back to my suburban refuge. Instead I gather my pillow and your blanket and climb into the loft of the cabin. You follow me, stupid puppy, stoned wasted.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't even talk to you..." you plead, unpromted, somehow reading my mind. "I care about you, you know. You're my girl, aren't you?"

Deer-in-the-headlights. One minute. Two minutes. Breathing in. He's waiting. "I... don't... know..."

He instantly forgives me, holds onto me, says it's ok, kisses my head, smells my hair. Passes out.

Morning comes. The orange shade glows with 9am sunshine. Wind ruffles the shade in a way that reminds me of home, of Grandma's, of any old cozy wooden familiar place.

Sober in the morning, you say, "All I know is that I love spending time with you, that we've spent so much, and that it never seems like enough."