Spacewalker

A Story by Lemon Cakes

Walking through waves to other worlds.

I walk through the stars. The cold pooling around my ankles, the glimmering lights. My dark skin helping me blend into the void. I walk a little farther, so the cold spreads above my knees. The light concentrating there, making distorted rings. I could be sitting on Europa, allowing my legs to dangle in the strange water there.

Reality hits. Instead of the far off ocean of Europa, I am standing in the Atlantic. I breathe in the sharp scent of the sea. I push forward and roll onto my back. Floating, looking up to the fabric of space. The moon, so bright tonight that even my skin glows white. I close my eyes and send myself to the rings of Saturn.

The next mornings are always rough, as if I had actually traveled the light years to other planets, other galaxies. I amble to the kitchen and place the amber kettle on the stove. Opening up my laptop, I begin filtering through the my pictures from the last adventure. There are some here and there I pick out to send for the overview, but I need the money shot. The new sculpture that now towers above the rest of the land - a giant citron burrowing its way into the ground. Rolling plains of fuschia with white tufts stretching up to a massive volcano. Snapshots into a typical day in Moscow... The piercing shrill of the kettle brings me back to the kitchen.

With a searing cup of tea and butter cookies to keep me grounded, I continue my search. The entire portfolio from the trip, something must be useful. The frozen aqua waters remind me of far off worlds; unfortunately, my boss is not as interested in the landscapes as I am. My tea is finished, and I have traversed the entirety of the Russian territory. In desperation, I open the files from the photoshoot with some models there. They are all too forced, too bored. I go back to the main gallery and smile. Not the best technical photograph I have ever taken, but the subject commands a presence. A girl, whose skin is as smooth and light as ice, laying on the hardwood. Her leg extended above her, toes in a perfect pointe even in the air. Emerald eyes focused strictly on the camera.

Now that the photo has been sent off with enough description to get the writer started, I can breathe again. As I clean up from my pitiful breakfast, I catch a whiff of the ocean still attached to me. Outside the window, I can see the rolling waves crashing to shore. I could go for another swim, but it is just not the same in the daylight. I stretch and head for the shower. The cool, soothing water raining down is a relief. I walk out of the water and straight back to bed.

That night, my friends forced me out to the bars. Time to meet a new guy or Gotta get yourself back out there. I just didn’t have any desire to. But, it made them happy and would satisfy them for awhile so I reluctantly agreed. It’s not like i had never been with a man before; I had a few one night stands before Barry. I just never felt anything with any of them. I stayed with Barry only because he was nice and it was fun to have someone waiting for me when I came home. But I knew I couldn’t string him along forever so I ended it before it got too serious.

When we enter the bar, some pop punk song is blasting at an inhumane level. Anna tries to drag me to the dance floor, but I convince her that a drink is in order first. We take our seats at the bar, the rest of them sticking me at the end in hopes that it gives the men a better chance of approaching. I order my tequila sunrise and turn to survey the room. Scanning the room, no one jumps out at me. Sure there are some cute guys around, but none spark my interest. Mila is fervently pointing out men as my drink arrives and I swing around to reach for it. As I bring the cocktail to my lips, I lock eyes with a woman at the end of the counter. Her lips, a dark wine, upturn in a smirk before sipping at a drink of her own. Martini; that is a strong drink for a Tuesday night. She smiles again for a moment before throwing back her entire drink in one go and heading to the floor. The blue of her top is just enough to contrast the natural tan of her skin. I lower my drink and it dawns on me that Mila has been silent for awhile. I glance over and she has the most incredulous look on her face. A glance to my other side reveals Anna with the biggest grin stuck to her face. Quickly, she shoos me out of my seat and towards the woman.

It doesn’t take me long to reach her, she seems to orbit along the perimeter of the crowd waiting for me. As I approach, it occurs to me that I have no idea how to dance or even how to respond to advances from a woman. I’ve always just followed the lead of whatever man came to me. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I continue to stand there awkwardly until at least she spins around and sees me. She beams, reaching out and capturing my arm to pull me deep into the crowd. We end up in the epicenter, the black hole of the dance floor where nobody escapes from. As she guides me through the loud, repeating music I don’t, I can’t, focus on anything else but her and the rhythm of our dancing. I don’t know how long we remained there; the occasional brush of her soft skin against mine, her hair tickling my face.

Once the cloud of people had thinned, I could see that my friends must have left. A hand slips into mine as I smile into her hair and lead her out of the bar.

The next morning is bright, sunshine flooding the room. I move to get out of bed, noticing the curled mass of dark hair poking out from under the covers. Quietly, I make my way to the kitchen and throw open all of the windows. The wind is acting up today, carrying the scent of the sea through the room. I stay near the window, relishing in the breeze, before realizing that my clothes are still on the floor of the bedroom. I lean into the counter, debating if I should return for at least one layer. A long hum alerts me that my guest is awake. I look over my shoulder to see her perched in the doorway, smiling. Five steps were all it took to close the gap between us.

After a brief respite to the bedroom, we end up back in the kitchen. I start preparing the green tea in two mugs, grating a little ginger into each while the water is boiling. Meanwhile, she is at the stove frying up eggs and throwing in whatever edible items she can find in the fridge. Food shopping is not something that I do often, since I could be gone for weeks at a time without much notice. Once our meager breakfast is finished, though I have to say it was at least more substantial than my usual meal of cookies usually is, we began to prepare to go on our separate ways; I busy myself with the dishes while she goes to find her missing articles of clothing.

Not too long after my guest has departed, while I’m curled up under a large blanket flipping through one of the magazines that arrived in my absence, the phone rings. The editor loved the shots I sent, which means I should get paid this week. He mentions that he would love to add an interview with me or a write up in the next issue. Something for the readers to get some backstory on, quote, “our traveling camera.” I don’t really want to do an interview, but I really do not want to write about myself. He tells me to either submit a short paragraph with my next set of photographs, which could be of any subject, or he will drag me out of the house for the interview. He hangs up shortly after.

Drifting in the sea later that evening, I try to think of something I could write. I close my eyes and remember when I was younger, when I first started looking to the sky for comfort. Whenever I thought I had made a devastating mistake or a terrible event happened, just looking at the stars made me realize how little my own problems mattered. How, in the grand scheme of this universe, my decisions did little to influence any of it. I never told anyone of course; kids my own age would call me strange and the adults wouldn’t know what to do with me. Instead, I kept quiet and was always deemed mature for my age year after year for the way I carried myself. Nothing I thought our readers would care about.

I did use to make up stories when I was younger as well. Looking at the moon, there is one I vividly remember. Almost as if it had happened. I am standing in the water and suddenly this woman appears. Her skin as bright as moonlight that my eyes are almost forced away. But her eyes. They were darker than anything I have ever seen. She beckons me forward and I go to her. Her hand is outstretched and as I reach I can feel the cold almost radiating off of her. She wraps her hand around mine, leaving a fine dust across my skin. Her face is so close to mine now, blinding me except for the pools of her eyes. My heart is thundering against my chest as she continues to lean closer. Her lips meet mine and my heart stops as she vanishes. I am alone again in the frigid water. Lowering my hand, I can see silvery powder lingering against my skin. The only proof I have that the woman had been real.

Of course she never was.

The airport is always crowded. No matter the weather or time of day or year, it is always astounding how bustling it is. I awoke this morning with the overwhelming urge to go somewhere, anywhere, as long as it wasn’t my own house. I called the magazine to let them know and was told that as long as I brought my camera and got shots for the next issue they would pay for the flight out. Standing at the airline counter, I looked through all of the outbound flights for the day. I had already been to most of the destinations. Madrid, Sao Paulo, Paris, London, Toronto, Montreal, Tokyo... I didn’t know where I needed to go, I just knew it was somewhere I hadn’t been before. I filter through several airlines before I spot a small one that seems to travel specifically to Africa.

Three and a half hours later I find myself on a rather cozy flight to Ghana. This trip will just leave Australia as the only continent I have not set foot on. The flight attendants warn us to turn off cell phones as I finished texting Anna to let her know I will be landing in just under 15 hours. She was furious that I had not even gotten the woman’s name I took home last night, but was happy that I had at least gone out with them before I left... even though we didn’t spend that much time together.

I make sure the bag is secured between my feet as the plane taxis down the runway. I have never on any flight allowed my camera to travel any other way. Looking out the window as we slide into the air, I start a mental countdown until night. We should still be in the air when day transitions to dark. If possible, I schedule all of my flights this way. There is nothing quite like seeing how many stars come out when there is minimal light around. Though the best view of the stars I’ve ever seen was northern Iceland. There was no borealis that night, I was the only of my group to not be disappointed, so the sky was crystal clear. I could see the sweeping arm of the milky way reach up to the heavens. Photos from that moment hang throughout my house.

Once the aircraft landed safely at the airport and my single bag recovered from the rear of the plane, I hail a cab to take me to my hotel. And as soon as I settle into the cab, we arrive. The hotel is absolutely gorgeous - firey orange roof and pools of crystal clear water weaving around the grounds. I tip the driver before heading inside to check in. A beautiful woman shows me to my room, one with a view of the ocean. I toss my bags on the floor and carry my camera out on the balcony. I had messaged Anna from the cab, it was about mid-afternoon back at my house, and I was scolded for being awake since here it is in the early hours of the day. Looking up, I spot Virgo and Libra hanging above the waves.

I know this is a terrible idea even as I leave the hotel. By the time my feet hit the sand, however, all thoughts of returning to my room for the night vanish. The sand feels familiar, like the beaches back home. The ocean, however, seems entirely different even though I know in my head it is the same waters. I am up to my waist now, and land seems so far away thanks to the gentle slope of the sand. Not wanting to stray too far in the current, I walk parallel to the coast keeping the orange glow of a bonfire in my sight.

It is amazing to think I am standing on the continent where mankind is thought to have been born. What did our ancestors think when they walked through the water? Did they ever imagine that one day we would spread across the globe? Looking up to the stars, what was their explanation for everything? We know what certain groups of people thought through paintings and written words. Before that, we can only guess what their minds were thinking.

Making whirlpools in the water with my fingers, I think of how amazing the human mind is. It can reach the farthest reaches of space or the innermost part of the soul. And yet, my feet can never leave the earth, at least not for long. Stuck on this one planet out of billions. Maybe when I die, my atoms will scatter throughout the galaxy. Will they aid in birthing new stars? Or get sucked into a black hole forever?

I realize how far I've strayed, and start heading back to land. I imagine how beautiful everything will look in the morning and itch to have my camera in my hands. Pictures have become my means of understanding the world. I have made it my mission to explore every inch of this earth. If it is the only world I will ever know, I want to know all of it.