By Jacqueline Schaalje
The waves were splashing around me, the surf was carrying me as if by echolocation measuring shore to shore. The lake was deep and turquoise and lapped against the sides of my red bike. I had a metallic taste in my mouth, like I'd swallowed a coin. As a child, I once swallowed a nickel to see what would happen, whether it could be undetectable in me, but nothing can be hidden, or not for very long, and the little puck pushed out, as fresh as the lake when the waves rock round-backed and glittery in late sun.
It reminded me of that couple who were searching for her too-loose wedding band. Some other swimmers helped them, but soon gave up and went back to their towels and windscreens. My father was the last to hover with them over the rocky bottom while trying to feel and peer down through the murk. When the three of them returned to shore, the couple said they were band members. My dad, not into popular music, had never heard of them. I hadn't either. Giet Wa were from the east of the Netherlands, and sang in a near-indecipherable dialect, close to Low German. They sent us a cassette afterwards. My sister asked if she could unspool it, for fun. I said not for now.
Jacqueline Schaalje has published poetry and short fiction, most recently in Ponder Review, Milk Candy Review, and underscore_magazine. She won the 2022 Florida Review Editor's Prize and has been a finalist in a few other competitions.
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