The pearlescent water of the Lethe ebbed and flowed. It was a Sunday, and so Dahlia and Lilac went to the river, Dahlia with her leather shoulder bag slapping lightly at her side, Lilac with an open flask, lid swinging, mouth turned toward the gravel shore.
Dahlia’s eyes were fixed, as they always were, on the glittering stones right by the water’s edge. As the two drew closer to the rushing stream, she started picking up rocks, turning them over once, twice, setting them down again. In some rare moments, her eyes might narrow on a particularly craggy one and her smile might widen, and she would drop it with a sharp clatter into her shoulder bag. Lilac waited, eyes trained on her partner, flask now upright and softly dripping.
“What are you looking for?” Lilac asked, her bottle clutched to her chest.
“Nothing. Fossils. I like to save them before the Lethe can wear them away.” Dahlia flipped her current rock over in her hand, a rough corner leaving pale streaks on the meat of her palm. “There are enough smooth stones in the world already. And they all look the same.”
“But every fossil is different.” Lilac nodded, the corner of her mouth turned up. “I get it.”
Dahlia looked up at Lilac, who was fiddling with the cap of her flask. Something steely flashed in Dahlia’s eyes, and she cleared her throat, calling Lilac’s gaze up to hers.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Dahlia said. One fist was clenched around the rock she’d been holding; the other hand was still imprinted with the memory of the last stone.
Lilac flipped the cap off of her bottle and took a long drink. “Can’t do what?”
Dahlia sighed. “Would you stop with the…” Lilac took another sip. “…never mind. I can’t do this.” She gestured awkwardly at the space between the two of them. “I can’t do us.”
Lilac brought her flask up to her lips once more, water spilling down her face this time. Her eyes narrowed in confusion as she brought the bottle down. “Were we ever a thing?”
Dahlia gripped the rock harder and turned her eyes down towards the canister. “Yes, Lilac, we were. Now, for the love of God, would you stop–” She made a swipe for the bottle. “–forgetting?”
Lilac brought the flask back and up, reflexively. She examined it, the swirling, opalescent liquid reflecting the sun rather than filtering it through, casting her face in silver. “Oh, but it feels so good not to have to remember. Makes hard conversations easier.” She chuckled. “Where were we?”
Dahlia’s arms lowered. She dropped the rock into her shoulder bag and began stepping back slowly with a lopsided gait, the strap of her bag now taut. “I’m leaving you.”
“And you are?”
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