The sky is dark purple and dusky, and the stars are brilliant tonight, even behind those tissue-paper clouds.The water in the pond is inky black, and we're sitting on someone else's dock, hoping they won't come down here to find two naked teenagers, but who else would be swimming this time of night? I've seen the woman who uses this dock, spreading oils across her sun-burned skin and barely breathing in her lyrca suit, sipping tiny glasses of cold, colorful drinks. She's not the skinny-dipping type.
    We have nothing to worry about, I tell him, and he believes me. I slide off the dock, leaving only wet handprints, into the black water. It's warmer and shallower than I expected, and the muddy bottom is too close, so instead I float on my back, looking at my feet, my legs, my skin too pale against the black water.
    He's talking to me, sweet things that I love to hear, and I listen until the water covers my ears, and then all I can hear is my breathing, so familiar it's indecent, and the quiet rush of a sleeping world under the surface. The water rinses away sweat and mosquitoes, fans out my tangled hair, and I feel myself smiling.
    I tell him this only happens in movies, and we share a smile because we both know I'm wrong and we're lucky.