Low Water

I found Nate on the last dock at dusk, taking the season’s temporary chairs inside one at a time.

“You could carry two,” I said.

“I know.”

It was the last Sunday in September. Most of the boats had gone into storage. The water was lower against the pilings, exposing dark bands which had been hidden all summer. My car was packed except for the bag I’d need that night. I would leave for Chicago in the morning.

I had meant to tell him over supper. Then while we washed up. Then before I put my coat on. Every ordinary moment had seemed too small for the words, which was foolish, because ordinary moments were the place I wanted them to live.

“Are you putting the whole season away very slowly?”

“Maybe.”

“Put that one down.”

He looked at me, then set the chair beside the railing.

I sat in…