Glass Dildo on a Vermont Dock Before Autumn Dawn

The lake held no sound. Not the absence of sound — something more deliberate than that, the way water goes perfectly still when the temperature drops below a threshold and everything on the surface stops negotiating with the air above it. She had watched it from the cabin window for ten minutes before she picked up the blanket.

The dock boards were frost-cold under her bare feet. She had known they would be. That was part of it — the specific shock of the planks, the way the cold traveled up through her soles and into her shins before her body could decide what to do with the information. She walked to the end anyway. The wool blanket dragged one corner across the boards behind her.

She knelt. The blanket pooled around her knees, and she arranged it the way she wanted — not for warmth, exactly, but for the texture of it against her thighs, the coarse weave that scratched just enough to remind her where her skin was. The front fell open. She let it. The October air reached her stomach and she held her breath for a moment, not from cold but from the particular quality of the darkness over the water — the way the lake's surface gave back nothing, no sky, no treeline, no edge. Just black going on until it met more black.

She had carried the glass in the front pocket of the blanket, wrapped in a wool sock. She unwrapped it now and set it across her thigh. The cold came through immediately — a narrow, dense weight, nothing like her own temperature. She kept her right hand around it and pressed her left palm flat against the dock beside her knee, feeling the frost-roughened grain of the wood, the specific hardness of something that has been cold all night.

Her breath came out longer than it went in. She hadn't planned that.

The lake didn't move.

She was aware of the space between her knees — the fact of it, the deliberateness of having arranged herself this way, kneeling on wool at the end of a dock in the dark while everyone in the cabin slept. There was something she had been wanting for the last two days that she hadn't let herself name until now. The glass was still cold against her thigh. She shifted her weight forward slightly and the blanket's coarse edge dragged across the inside of her knee.

Her left hand pressed harder against the dock. The frost bit into her palm.

She looked out at the water — that perfect, soundless black — and let the glass move.

The first contact came through nothing. Just the cold, and the specific density of it, and the sound that came out of her before she could stop it: shorter than she expected, almost nothing, swallowed before it reached the water.