Sunday at the Playground

It is brutally hot.  I am standing on the track, in an orange paisley dress, with a teal purse on my shoulder.  Jillian and the others are on a bench in the shade – sort of.  I put the headphones in.  A boy rides by on his bike, with a black cocker spaniel close behind.  We are on his turf.  My eyes dart.  Up down over.  Jillian and the others look at me, but their eyes dart too – up to the sky, down to the mural, over to the boy and the dog.

It was easy to see when something was out of place.  It was easy to see that something was out of place.  Something was out of place.

I reference ballet and Christie.  Bullets and battements.  I attempt the strobe, poorly.  Jillian is Jillian, and I am I.

I listen to myself in the past repeating something from Jillian further past.  Time of death cannot be stated with any accuracy by the time our bodies are examined.  (… eternity … eternity …)

Dazed, we head for air conditioning and ice cream.  I choose one flavored with beer.  Jillian selects coconut ice.  Jillian is Jillian, and I am I.

The only thing we had to worry about was the future.

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