Everybody really wants to know how far back the rocking-chair will go before it topples over backwards. It is in our blood. Some people will never find out- will just rock comfortably within the known limits of their momentum. Some brave souls will discover the rocking-chair-barrier, first by rocking a little bit, then harder each time until they hit that one swing that sends them over the limit. Then, very rarely, someone will come along who has no interest in conducting tests or discovering the barrier. It’s not even a conscious decision for her to be “different” or to “shake people up.” She plops down in that chair, and without a thought of caution or appearance, sends it back further than it can possibly go. This might be why I loved Emile Carrigan.
    Myself- I consider a part of the unfortunate class of men... those whose brains get in the way of their actions. I discover the barrier through a conscious decision and desire to do so. My will is to live entirely through my heart, but my mind will not allow it. This causes a civil agreement on any actions taken, as opposed to an emotional straight-charge into the world’s most liquid center. I do my best to hide this, not only from my friends, but also from myself. I figured, by surrounding myself with the Sprawlers (those who rock full-tilt, lacking that cautious part of the brain) it will be far easier to give in and deny second-guessing, rationalizing, and other such despicably prudent actions.
    And my friends and I traveled to a local tavern on a snowy night, prepared to boil our brains and stir our blood, if for no other reason, then just to keep warm. On our way there, we stumbled across an oddity I had never witnessed in Maine, or any other setting before. A girl, full of ecstasy and snow, was jumping rope in a pseudo-secluded backyard, wearing nothing but a bathing suit. After a few amused moments, my friends passed her off as drunk and insisted we carry on towards a similar journey at the tavern. I wasn’t so easily swayed.
    The now-pink girl made eye-contact with me, offering a silly sort of smile, still jumping her rope. There was an understanding there; not a drunken false-connection, but a legitimate sense of purpose in what she was doing. She was in no way creating a spectacle or some social experiment, nor was she drunk or begging for attention. Perhaps if she were more physically attractive, as set down by all the trade magazines and feature films of the time, she would be getting some unwanted attention. As it was, her little pot belly, large-ish thighs and pale skin was enough to allow most males to move on to the bar or pub. I was not allowed that option. I went back to inquire.
    A trail of laughs from my friends followed me to this anomaly in the snow, making it difficult for me to appear as sincere as I had hoped.
    “Hi” was my greeting- truly an original.
    “Hello. Are you looking to join me?” she replied.
    “Well, not right now. I was just wondering why you’re doing this. If you don’t mind me-“
    “I felt like taking a hot bath. And the colder I am, the hotter the bath will feel.” she stated, not offering me a chance to finish my sentence. Her words bounced up and down through the air along with her body, which narrowly missed being swatted by her jump-rope.
    Seeing that I was not immediately scared away, my tavern-mates started cheering, their purpose being to embarrass me as much as humanly possible. I thought I had lost her when she asked-
    “So, are you here so you can prove your balls to your friends?”
    I was momentarily stopped, but soon realized this was not an accusation or insult- she was legitimately curious.
    “No, see I, uh, well you see-“ I began to stutter. “Why the jump-rope?”
    “I like it.”
    “In your bathing suit?”
    “Oh, yes sir.”
    “Why?”
    She stopped jumping rope for a moment, catching her breath and pondering her answer. At least, she said,
    “I don’t know. I never really wondered why.” She began jumping again. “It’s a good question though.”
    I tried to hide my all-encompassing amazement at her answer, in an attempt to seem just as free-spirited and pure as she seemed to be. My efforts failed, my eyes grew large, and a gaping smile showed on my wet face. I turned back around to the entrance of the yard, but the group of onlookers had made their way to the tavern, obviously feeling less interested in seeing me through my meeting than with getting indoors and inside a warm bottle. I turned back to the girl, who had turned pink-to-red.
    It took a few silent seconds of courage-gathering and word-selecting, but eventually I opened my mouth, and asked her this question-
    “What’s your name?”
    “Em-ile-Car-ri-gan.” she said, putting extra emphasis into a syllable each time she bounced.
    “Emile, do you think, maybe, you would like to put off your bath for a little while and, uh, maybe have a drink or talk for a little bit? Or anything. For anything?”
    Emile stopped jumping and rubbed her arms very hard to generate heat, leaving a temporary white trail on her rosy arms. She smiled at me, walked over rather gracelessly, and gave an icy kiss on my lips.
    “No, thank you.” she simply said. “I need to go in and have a bath now.”
    She collected her jump-rope, curtsied in the middle of a disturbed pile of snow, and tip-toed inside her house. Rather than remain in the cold myself, I started for the tavern, where I would have to face my best friends in the world who would not appreciate a word I would tell them. Still, I swaggered my way to the hole, fit with a smile and a fresh love for the night, and told them anyway.

THE END