COMPARTMENTALIZE ALL THE THINGS THAT KEEP YOU FROM READING STARS

“What if...” you say. The water's swirling around my ankles creeping higher higher around me as we sit and talk over tea sitting in roller chairs eating granola bars. You suggest we retreat to higher ground as the water is practically up over the radiator inching dangerously close to the window sill. We climb up separate ladders leading to the concrete skies. “What a view, what a view.” The panes of glass slip one by one row by row beneath the rising water line. Across the room you adjust your glasses and quite casually nudge the edge of the canoe floating by your bed. “These will just have to do.” I hang my feet off the edge of my bed dangling them in the water watching as it moves up past toes to ankles and calves. The window is gone now. Our room must look a bit like a fish tank. You smile and dive in making faces by the window. When you surface again there is a smile. “They think I'm a flying fish.” You climb back onto your bed and into the canoe and paddle over to rescue me from my bed island. “Fishing, I think, would be best.” So we cast our lines and reel in books and socks and all manner of ancient artifacts lost minutes ago beneath the rising flood. Knock, knock, knock. “I guess we'd better get that.” “I don't believe in the door.”