Cotton Sundress at a Vermont Lake at Dawn

The birch trees are absolutely still.

I noticed that first, before anything else — the way they stand without moving, white trunks catching the early light, not a single leaf turning. No wind. The lake is the same: flat, grey-green, holding the sky without disturbing it. I have been watching both for ten minutes, sitting on the flat rock above the waterline with my bag beside me and my knees together and the sundress pooled over my thighs like it doesn't know what I came here to do.

It is six forty-seven. I checked before I left the trailhead. I have until eight, maybe a few minutes past, before the first serious hikers come through — the ones with trekking poles and hydration packs, the ones who nod and keep moving. Until then, this part of the shore belongs to no one but me and the birches and whatever birds are working through the treeline above the water.

I packed the bag last night with the specific logic of someone who has thought about this more than once. Sunscreen. Water bottle. The silicone dildo in its soft pouch, zipped into the front pocket where I would not have to search for it. I had been thorough. I had been, I think, almost clinical about it — the way I am when I am studying something I want to understand completely, taking it apart into its components before I let myself feel anything about it.

The wanting, though, has been here since before I left the cabin. Since the drive up the access road with the windows down and the cool morning air coming through my hair. Since I parked and shouldered the bag and walked the trail in the early light with the dress shifting against the backs of my thighs at every step, the fabric just light enough to feel like almost nothing, light enough that I was aware, with each stride, of what it covered.

I set the bag down beside me on the rock. The stone is cold through the dress — a specific cold, the kind that has been holding the night in it all summer and gives it up slowly. I feel it at the backs of my thighs and then, when I shift my weight, lower, closer to where the warmth is already gathering without my permission.

I know what I am going to do. I have known since last night. That is not what I am waiting for.

I am waiting for the moment before — the one that belongs only to me, before the wanting becomes action and action becomes something I can no longer study from a careful distance. My right hand moves to the bag's front pocket. I feel the zipper pull between my thumb and forefinger and I do not open it yet.

The lake holds still. The birches hold still. I exhale, and the sound that comes out is quieter than I expected, pressed thin somewhere between my throat and the open air, not quite a breath and not quite anything else.

My knees are still together. The dress lies flat across them, thin cotton warm from my skin on top and cool from the stone beneath, and I am aware of the weight of it, the specific small weight of fabric that is the only thing between me and the morning.

I let my hand rest on the zipper. I do not pull it yet.

The trees do not move.