Lake

On impact, the glass explodes and keeps exploding. It’s only when the cold hits that I realize that it’s lake water. I am pushed back against the glass on the passenger side like a giant’s hand has lifted me. I breathe water and choke, then wise up and hold my breath.
My belt is off. We had that much time to think. You turn to me across the car—your hair moves in the water like weeds. We are in darkness and sinking. You push against your window as though you’re wrestling with someone, invisible. I don’t understand how you could struggle so much and not move, but I remember the whole lake is against you—the whole lake is pushing us down.
But you twist and shift and your body goes up and I see your legs. As your foot disappears I see one of your black shoes fall in slow motion. I keep my eyes on that shoe. It’s the one thing not struggling—it falls so gently. It doesn’t care.
My lungs are taut from holding their shape. I push and fall into the lake proper and the car is gone, a dream. I see it go into darkness, softly.
Then I am rising, rising, with barely a push from my legs. I scrabble through the dark. I am in an element I’ve agreed upon as a test and the strangest thing is how everything is happening backwards now, how I am falling upwards. And pretty soon I rise and I can feel the build in my head, the surge and throb of it, towards the biggest splash I’ve ever imagined.