She sidearmed a rock across the lake’s smooth surface, counting the skips until it veered left with a quick jerk, sinking into the horizon.
“Still got it,” she crooned, internally.
A nasty “plop” disrupted her moment. She glanced to the right in time to witness a reverberating ripple, then a little further to a sticky-faced child staring disappointedly into the water. She turned left and walked away from the inhabited part of the beach along the pebbled shore where a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree. A mucky “crunch” echoed behind her, the eagle took flight. She turned to again find the child, whose cow-licked hair appeared to be winning the battle against any and all attempts at grooming, holding out his hands to reveal – a jagged rock, a broken shell, and a smooth stone.
“Where–“ she rasped from phlegm and turned her head to clear her throat, noticing his mother pacing back and forth, tethered to her phone. She faced the boy and pointed at the smooth stone, “That one,” then surveyed her surrounding options, grabbing one similar. “It needs to be flat.”
The child, loosened his grip, discarding the rock and the shell.
“When I was your age,” – god, how she hated that line — “my dad, well, I guess if we were related, he’d be your great-grandfather,” – she stumbled with how to convey time to this munchkin – “said, ‘it was all in the wrist’.” She took the stone and held it tight, “See, you flick it.”
She walked back to where the water lapped at her toes. “You can bend down, winding up like they do in baseball. Or, if you’re really good, you just flick your wrist.” He stared up at her, rapt.
“Here”. The stone skipped, one, two, three, four, five. “Plop.”
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