The Lure

The pull of the mechanical ocean.

Bianca Llerena

Today is so nice and sweet.

Floral iPhone cases, vintage cat-eye sunglasses, pink-arrowed hearts.

Boxed water and chevron coffee pots.

Seaweed, Pretty Girls.

Girls, girls, girls.

The murky waters are still and humble. Warm, even. The air is hot and dry, so why not submerge below? We board the Universal Serial Bus and along the lanes of wires, a splash of glitter forms. We dive in like mermaids, yet we're more like dolphins; we must surface to survive.

I say we get off at the seaweed pharmacy as there’s so much to do. There, all of the colors are materialized and so are the shapes we've known since childhood. But you say, “Let’s go to my room. I want you there with me, through the mess.”

And I can tell that this is an ask for help; you are asking me: “Can you watch me clean? I can’t be alone, but the floor is rotting underneath the layers of clothes and homework.” I say yes and the bus continues, and that’s the thing about the Sea—she is all-consuming.

We sit on pillows, each in our own bubbles, and the world is smooth like glass candy. Mine is pink and yours is a pale blue. So, the flavors leave us with many questions: why do I end up with a pink tongue and you with a blue one? How come things must be one way or another?

Why must I alert the idle traveler? Why must I carry the world like an egg sack? How come the seashells I collected as a child were lost in the garage? That’s not fair.

But “fair” is a fruit basket.

It will rot someday.

We must take turns swimming until it gets dark.

Can’t I stay submerged for just one more minute?

Please?