The black flies circled Kimberly’s head, drilling down on her forehead, neck, and nose like supersonic fighter jets. It was bug-to-human combat, sitting at a worn picnic table on top of a Vermont mountain in the middle of June. Swatting was useless. The flies just came back. Somewhere, Kimberly had read that if you raise your hand above your head the flies will veer away, but her raised fist just drew stares from the hikers that marched by, their steps accelerating at the sight of her flailing, crazed arms. She rubbed the minuscule bug bites and watched the bumps on her arms and legs grow an angry red.  

The relentless annoyance distracted her from the scenery. Purple lupines, daisies, and wild Black-Eyed Susans swayed in tall grass, framing an expansive view of green mountains and the steep Stratton Mountain trails below.   

Her boyfriend, Bruce, had promised he’d bike for an hour, but three hours had passed. He sped by her twice during that time—once doing a wheelie, shouting, “This is awesome! You should see me just banging down the mountain. I think I hit 40 miles per hour! This is SICK!”       

She was glad he was having fun, considering the start of the day was another fight.

“You suck at this,” Bruce shouted, yanking off his helmet and chucking it on the gravel path. “You’re not even trying!”

Lying on the gravel, Kimberly bench-pressed the yellow mountain bike off her torso. Bruce had given it to her for her 31st birthday so she could learn to mountain bike with him. The chain had smeared grease on her legs, and the fall had left scrapes on her knees and calves. She pushed herself up, swung her leg over the bike, and tried again. “Can’t you go any faster? How are you going to ride down the mountain if you can’t even handle these base trails?” he asked, studying Kimberly like some transient shuffling toward him with a cardboard sign.

“This is the first time I’ve ridden a bike since junior high. That’s more than 20 years ago! Did you honestly think I’m some expert mountain biker? Oh yeah, thanks for asking me if I’m okay.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I guess your leg modeling career is over. Sorry.” He let out a crazed laugh, then screamed, “Fuck me! This is my day off! You’re telling me we came all this way and you can’t even ride?”

Kimberly had taken the day off as well—and not from selling furniture like Bruce, but from her dental practice. She had her dental assistant reschedule patients to make this long weekend possible. Kimberly wanted to leave, but Bruce was her ride home—and the forecast was perfect, and she was looking forward to their Saturday night dinner plans and a break from looking at the inside of mouths, the scent of acrylic, tooth dust, and disinfectants all day. 

“I thought we’d have some kind of flat bike path, not all these switch backs and steep hills.”

Bruce was beside himself, now shoving his bike to the ground to join his helmet. “What are we doing? We have nothing in common,” he whined.

Back at the summit, Kimberly tried to focus on her paperback. She didn’t regret telling Bruce to go riding alone. She had a book to read, a pad of paper to draft to-do lists, and her business plan to buy a small strip mall in two years that would include her practice and three other businesses she’d earn rental income from. She thought in two years she’d be married, and in three years, start a family. She had already committed to three years with Bruce. She tried to rub off the grease on her legs, but the grease was ingrained like a zig-zag tattoo. She slapped her clavicle, flicking a dead black fly away. Is this love? Is this a partnership? Does Bruce even like her? She was willing to put in the work for a relationship. She was willing to make concessions. But the work was now a daily chore. Which was harder, starting over or being with Bruce. The bloody scratch on her knees had hardened. Maybe the fight and the day would wash away in the shower tonight.

The rough picnic table pricked her finger. A tiny sliver drew blood, and she sucked it away, wondering if she would need a Band-Aid. If she really thought about the good times with Bruce, they may have lasted a few months. What was the turning point—from the honeymoon period to feeling like a long, dusty road with no ending in sight? It was when she showed Bruce her dental practice, tucked away in a maze of hallways in a three-story office building. She thought it was strange he did not say much during the brief tour, just rubbed his stubbled goatee and nodded his head.

“This is one of three treatment rooms,” she had said, opening the door and walking in, but Bruce just nodded, never stepping in to see the periwinkle vinyl dental chair or the credenza that stored the various instruments she used. “I can give you a quick check-up if you like,” she had leaned into Bruce, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his whiskered mouth.     

He pulled her away, “we better get going if we want to see the movie.”

It was when Bruce’s mom gave her a synthetic blend sweater for Christmas—a noticeable downgrade from the cashmere twin set Kimberly unwrapped the year before. Even his mom did not think investing in a holiday present was worthwhile for a dead-end girlfriend.

Kimberly stopped talking about her patients to Bruce. Like the time she completed a complicated root canal for Harold Kowalski, a 68-year-old mayor who was in the news for misappropriation of funds. Winter road salting and plow support had been redirected to cruises with his down-low girlfriend. Or the news anchor on channel 22 Kimberly implanted two front teeth for. Bruce would roll his eyes and accuse her of showing off: “Aren’t you important!”

She tried to support Bruce’s career as a furniture sales associate, making him a filet mignon when he advanced from fleet support, a.k.a delivering furniture to working the floor room and customer service. She listened to him vent about the $10,000 sale swiped away by the new charlatan. She would leave the community college course guide on his bed hoping he’d finish his degree or get certified in something.

“This gnocchi is amazing, have you thought about becoming a chef,” she ventured a couple of times on the topic of his future which led to a fight.

 “What’s wrong with furniture sales? Not good enough for you?” he would snap, shoving his gnocchi, stuffed with spinach, cheese and mushrooms to the side.

 “I don’t think its good enough for you,” she would counter, “all you do is complain about work. Try something else?”

 Now it was just Kimberly, the black flies, and the picnic table. The sky was shifting, looking like a split screen. One half a bright sky with streaks of cirrus clouds, and the other half an ominous blue gray pushing the bright away. Dollops of wet splatted Kimberly’s face. She spun around to see if Bruce was coming up from the gondola behind her for another “sick” ride down the mountain, but no one was stepping off the lift. Empty gondolas rose up the mountain. She stood and walked around to see if any hikers or bikers were nearby. The raindrops were increasing, peppering her salty, sweaty skin.

 The idea of dating apps felt like failure. Swipe left, swipe right. Rejection. Ghosting. No return texts. Or then the well-meaning friends who want to set you up with that great guy that can’t quite eclipse 5 foot 3 but has a great personality. Dating was a chore, a job, a sifting and sorting of strangers to see if you have something in common in the hopes that there is something that feels like love. Kimberly knew she could be alone day after day after day. She would need to accept loneliness, and the unknown ahead of her. Maybe a life with no partner, a life with no family of her own would be okay. In that moment all Kimberly wanted was a giant tub of insect repellent and a side of peace; even if it came with silence and solitude.

The sky cracked with lightning, then slapped down a torrential downpour. Will that make the trails slick with mud? Would Bruce fall and get hurt? She checked her phone. No missed call or text. She called Bruce. Straight to voicemail. Did Bruce ever wonder if she was okay? In the three hours she sat waiting for Bruce to finish his mountain biking, he never stopped and sat beside Kimberly to enjoy the panoramic view of the mountains. He never asked how her book was or what she was scribing in her notebook. He just bombed down the hill for another ride.

Kimberly sat back down at the picnic table. A tick clung on her right thigh, drunk with her blood, wet from the rain. She yanked it off her skin and flicked it with her finger into the field. The rain patter sounded like applause, cheering and jeering at Kimberly. Stay, go, stay, go, stay, go, stay, go. She stuffed her paperback and notebook in her backpack, stood up and sprinted to the gondola.

“Can I take the gondola back down?” she panted to the attendant, who stood dry under the awning. Her T-shirt stuck to her body, heavy and soaked. The attendant nodded and turned toward the next gondola advancing on the turnstile. He slowed the cart. Its doors opened with a warm light welcoming Kimberly inside. Behind her the mountain hummed.