She sat on a bench in a city parkette that seemed hardly bigger than her apartment. There used to be two benches. They took one away during the world's first rearrangement of Covid's initial go round. The benches were once beside one another. Now a concrete slab remained where that bench used to be. In it were four round holes, one with a rusted bolt sticking out of it. It was a small thing but it left a big hole in the Garden of Eden. It was a reminder of what used to be.
The parkette was sandwiched between two identical brick buildings making it a shadow world long and narrow. A wrought iron fence went from building to building and in the middle was a gate that allowed entry. The gate's hinges needed oiling.
There were three trees of the same species planted down the center of the little park. They were perfectly shaped and spaced and the dark green leaves of the bottom branches nearly touched the walls. They were planted, she supposed, to provide shade, but the space only received sun for an hour or two each day.
Someone lovingly maintained the little oasis. She never saw anyone prying at the dirt so its Eden like perfection seemed more a creation of magic than one of toil. She saw naught a single stray hair of grass tufting out of the beds or squeezing its slender way between border stones. She recognized Hostas and Solomon's Seal and patches of little colorful flowers she thought were Violas. The brick paths were swept clean and litter free.
For Christ's sake the garden fared better than her.
My life stinks. I am in a race to nowhere.
Her hunger had passed. Her meal remained wrapped in paper napkins lodged in her purse. The purse sat on the bench beside her. Yellow mustard seeped through the napkins.
She leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees and rolled a cigarette. She bit off the end and spat the bit onto the manicured path. That was the wrong thing to do. She reached down and picked up the papery tab then without looking flicked it with her finger onto the sidewalk behind her. Then that seemed wrong too but damned if she was going to go pick it up.
Everything felt wrong lately. She slouched back on the bench, the unlit rollie drooped from her lips. She breathed deep of the air and her head lolled back to look up at a single white cloud in a blue sky.
She sat like that for awhile. Her mind quieted. The whir of ungreased gears subsided. Something was different. Getting outside seemed to dispel her morning dread. Talking face to face, even briefly, to George felt like something.
Her neck hurt. She sat up straight.
Why did she ask George if he traveled? What was that all about?
She took hold of her purse, stood up with the paper dart still wedged between dry lips and walked out of the garden. Without noticing, her foot stepped on the little paper bit, and behind her the gate swung closed. The gate's hinges need oiling she thought.
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