His leg bounces, a small flurry of movement under the chrome dashboard. His eyes are shut so tight that he’s getting a headache. Maia reclines on the white car-bench, totally at ease even as the pressure of the ocean bears down on the aquacar. Ollie digs his teeth into his bottom lip.
‘Radio?’ He begs again, breathless.
Maia half-chuckles, and Ollie can imagine her face—dark eyes flashing to show their whites, the exasperated humour she always seems to hold for him. ‘Come on. It sounds beautiful! And it looks beautiful too, Ollie. Just chill.’
Ollie wants to make some sarcastic comment about deep ocean and chillness, but anything that requires him to acknowledge that their aquacar is currently surrounded by a billion tonnes of water, blasting down to crushing depths, and pressed on all sides by the eerie sounds of whale song and a dull, cavernous rush… is not something he’s prepared to do. His hands white-knuckle on his knees. God, how deep must they be now? Certainly, at any time, his head will pop like an overinflated balloon. Can this car, his wife’s latest shiny indulgence, really protect them?
‘Maia,’ he whimpers.
‘Baby,’ she returns. Then her hand is on his knee, ceasing his incessant fidgeting. He curls around her arm, seeking out the comfort of her warm skin. The ends of her braids tickle against his scrunched-up cheek. ‘Open your eyes, baby. For me. Yeah?’
And God help him, he does.
The interior of the car is the same as when they bought it, all creamy leather and chrome. Maia has one hand on Ollie’s thigh and the other on the wheel. She gives him a brilliant smile, her excitement bright in eager eyes, though the sprawl of her body is restful.
And then Ollie looks out the domed windshield. The headlights are stunning, illuminating what would otherwise by totally dark. It’s terrifying. The water seems almost thicker down here, like swimming through it would be slow and pulverising. It is forbiddingly empty, wide, infinite. Above, below, left, right: no direction has meaning. It’s all the same swallowing blackness. Ollie should never have agreed to this. He clings harder to Maia’s arm.
And then the light clicks off and the world is swiftly snuffed out. Ollie screams and throws himself into his wife’s lap, like the dark will leak in and consume him too.
‘Ollie, look!’
He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. But Maia is laughing as she grasps his chin, extracts his face from her shoulder, and turns it. He feels shivery and sick from the fear; his eyes flutter open.
They’re in space.
No, that’s not it—the ocean is glowing. Specks of brilliant light dapple the rippling pitch, constellations blinking to life in endlessly oscillating and coruscating webs. The bioluminescent dance swirls as sea creatures dart, spin, flash, float, and shimmy.
‘Oh,’ Ollie breathes out. ‘Oh.’
He feels Maia smiling at him, and blindly gropes for her hand. Together, they settle and watch and breathe.
Mel (they/them) is a queer writer and voracious reader living in Sydney, Australia.
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