I walked into Lake Washington with my clothes on, the day too perfect and the water too warm not to. I waited at the rope for the lifeguard on boat to near the dock with the diving boards. Panting, I climbed the seven or ten feet to the high dive and jumped. I climbed again, now taking requests.

Cannonball!

Can opener!

The rowing lifeguard complimented my form, my splash. Good. It hurt.

I climb one last time.

Dive! Give me a D! You got your D, you got your D! Give me an I! You got your I, you got your I! Give me a V! You got your V, you got your V! Give me an E! You got your E, you got your E! What’s that spellllll?!?

Hilary, my cheerleader.

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This is how I think of flying: that crazy tired that leaves you empty. You long for sleep but can’t grasp it.

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I woke to birds chirping though the window that’s open with no screen.

I walked out into the hall, into the sunlight and more open air.

I grinned and said, “Shut up.”

I’m lying on Scott’s Mother Teresa blanket—white and blue—on his mattress and box spring on the floor.

My hair, my for once glamorously tousled morning hair, is spilled out behind me. I’m listening to his iPod, looking at his books in wine crates on the wall, at his fly-fishing gear hanging from hooks.

I’m wondering what to wear and feeling lazy and great.

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Eating pizza in Seattle, I got suddenly, desperately homesick for Grandma & Grandpa’s English-muffin pizza. I almost cried.

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We were being quiet when we arrived at Scott’s. Hushed voices. Muffled rummaging for sleeping bags. Then Hilary fell down the stairs.

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A white film covers my hands: salt from paddling my kayak across the Sound.

Hilary singing “Hold Me” (the Free Willy theme song) both on kayak and at karaoke in a random bar on the way home.

Orca calls bouncing back to us off the wall of rock.

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Shower it up, Big Boy.

F-Jord. Hard J.

Out of respect for you, I closed my eyes.

I’m just resting my eyes. … I lied! I was totally asleep!

Come closer. Keep talking. I just wanted to feel your bicep.

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Our soundtrack includes Bon Iver (with Scott’s singing along his own rendition of the words), the PSA “The More You Know” notes, “Sister Christian,” and, of course, “Baby Monkey.”

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Staying with hippies, my unspoken agreement: Let the yellow mellow.

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Carl’s Jr. gave me my money back because I had to wait 15 minutes for a sandwich they had to be reminded to make and “suffer the humiliation of being the last to eat.”

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Bright gray.

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Peanut butter is not bitter.

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Listening to “’Til Kingdom Come” by Coldplay/Cash and various Black Keys

in the morning light, sleep hair

eating fruit and biscuits

drinking coffee

rocking out.

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Yelling Muse’s “Uprising” at the top of our lungs, windows down, driving the forever bridge over the Columbia into Washington. We will be victorious. Bitches.

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Fist pump the first thing out of the water.

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All five of us got into Scott’s queen-size, to show we could. The boys were bookends. We rotated all at once, spoons flipping in their drawer. Carefully avoiding genital touching.