The Fig Tree

Jason

«Bristol - Deck - 12:35»

"Time is passing and we are still in the middle of the sea, two unrestrained men."

That day was the first time I saw Jason. With untied bootlaces and a long black coat, he walked among the fish vendors; shaking his shoulders every now and then. Shady and ghostly and somehow greeting the fish, he dragged me unwillingly afterwards all the way, a skateboard caged under my armpit. In his left hand a full bag of dried fish and shrimp and a luggage in another, he passed the square and got to the beach by bus, of course, we got.

He got off and landed with his boots on the sand, venturing ahead. He didn't fold his pant sleeves to avoid getting them wet, and delved into the water.

The sea was pulling him, Jason was also hugging it. The sun was in the middle of the sky and Jason was in the middle of the sea. He turned and looked at me for a moment.

He stole my eyes and went lower. Down to the spinal cord and lower, the cerebellum and the brain. He went lower, hands and feet. Lower; Sands, shell, crust, mantle and core. Came out of the magma and crawled through the atlas until he reached the equator and its line.

Till the French Revolution and Hitler's uprising and little by little, Bohemian Rhapsody and Eleanor Rugby. Further to the Ukrainian camp and the dead child of that wife and her man in ruins. Till the Joe Biden election and the counter of our house in Arizona and the Iran-Israel war and my probing fingers and head, all the way up to my eyes.

This time we went further and left the rowdy English and the rains without a word. The water had risen up to our eyes and Jason's fish had come to life again. The ship was lower, waiting for us among the mermaids.

The first floor of the ship was deserted. Jason pulled two wooden chairs out of nowhere and gestured for me to sit on one. I had already straightened the chair when he put his shopping bags and luggage on the floor.

Now I can see his face better; deep black eyes, a bony nose, water-wrinkled skin, and a diagonal wound from his forehead to the bottom of his jaw. He had put his hands on both sides of the chair and was breathing heavily.

"The deck will be a new season."

A verb and a few words have kept him and I on this deck with drinks in our hands. With the same untied bootlaces and the converses as the first day in England. But now, Jason and I believe that not only the American life, but the sea life is enough. We must die.