Sea Firefly

Tonight I point the bike's nose toward the bay.

The shore lights draw long lines of light across the dark sea, one after another. The bar drops at the tollgate, and I dig in my pocket. …No card tonight. The late-night discount slips through my fingers, and with a bit of a pout I pay the full regular fare, in cash. A painful expense, progress: one hundred percent. One sigh into the night.

Wheelspin in my head, my heart over-revving. Even so, I don't break my line. One more twist of the throttle and the meter blacks out, my gaze and the road lining up dead straight.

—Riding that momentum, I missed the fork. Before I noticed the sign for the parking lot, I'd already gone past, and the undersea tunnel swallows me whole, sky and all. "You've got to be kidding." My voice echoes off chrome and tile. A midsummer cami and skirt are far colder than I'd expected, down here at the bottom of the midnight sea. But I steady my breath and laugh. Long hair streaming in the wind, calm still inside my chest. No rushing. The tollgate I left behind has already turned into a tiny spark of time.

That's when it hit me. Passing the parking lot means the return gate is waiting—and I pay the full fare all over again. …So my cash gets exchanged for tears. Even so, across the bay, that glowing marker keeps pulling me back home. One in the night sky, my star, my sea firefly. Even if I pass it, I'll catch its light on the way back. So with the night still lit, I ride the flow and head home toward the glow.