I’m going for a walk in the park. There’s a couple canoodling on a bench – she runs her finger along his blue sweater and they pause in a whisper, eyes closed, just inches away from each other balancing the energy before the kiss.
You can’t smoke here anymore, as of today. They’ll think about that in the future as a sign of historicity. It is gray-skied and a slight breeze moves the green heart-sheaped leaves up and down and back and forth. Occassionally my foot will drag in the gravel and make a scrape shuffle sound. I become conscious of walking so that the balls of my feet hit the ground first, then I focus on making my feet parallel, not pigeon-toed or duck-footed.
I spot a woman and I can tell from hundreds of feet away from her gait that she is well bred. Her hair billows in the wind as she closes in – her cheekbones are exquisite, her hair is ebonyblack. She holds her bag with her right arm and her left arm sways like a soldier’s or a beautiful woman’s. As she passes me I catch her eye and momentarily my heart clutches in my chest. I turn around to watch the tigress move away, the left purse-holding side of her body immobile as she generates momentum from the right. Her black jeans crease underneath her buttocks and my mouth opens in disbelief.
Anthony jumps out from behind a bush and stabs me with a fork, I take a mental picture for Meghan, think of Cat drinking her Arizona and it all unravels into post postmodernism.