The Map

   "What are you doing?"

   The question came from above, in every sense of the phrase. She was standing on the bridge, looking down and wondering. I was standing in the water, looking down and wondering. I didn't turn my head.

   "Hey, mister!"

   The water slithered around my legs slowly, steadily. Its rhythmic pace numbed me like the cold. Water crept up my legs and through my fingers, deep into my last crevice. I watched the dancing surface as it darkened.

   "Are you okay?" The voice thrummed vibrantly, the color red in a world of grey.

   "Go away," I said.

   "I am away," she said. I turned, finally, the absurdity of the answer diverting me. My eyes quivered and adjusted to the glare of a white sky.

   "What?"

   "I said, 'I am away.' Where are you?" She was a pretty girl, with eyes and lips as vivacious as her voice. She was smiling cheerfully.

   "Lost," I replied. The word leapt into my throat before I could stop it. It was so true, the trueness struck me dumb. I was effortlessly, hopelessly, maddeningly lost. The future and the past were indistinguishable, the present unbearable.

  "Where are you trying to go?" She asked me then, those twitching lips growing solemn.

  "I don't know," I answered, despondent. Her eyes crinkled again.

  "Good. I've a map that leads just there."