A journal of narrative writing.

This lake has a woman's name.

On the drive up here, upstate New York spread out before us like an old wound, she told me of the dream. In it, a woman bleeds onto a man's kitchen floor. One of her thighs is raised. Her lover stares from the next room.

I know this woman is good, she said.
How? I asked.
She cleans up after herself.

I watched a couple walk into the next cottage. He had a lean, wolfish face. She followed. Their ring fingers were naked. I thought about the girl later and whether she winces whenever the two pass a wedding procession.

I think there are no great tragedies anymore. We stumble into dark houses alone, consider ex-spouses, catch shreds of fur and skin in our throats. It's like when she asks if she's gained weight and I tell her no, she's perfect.

I walk down to the water alone.