� The Dog � 2006-07-20 � 10:06 p.m. �
The sun shone like a jewel on her crown, heating her mind and the moment and she sat in wait.
Minutes, she thought, I only have to wait minutes.
Her feet ached from the days before. Her heart ached from the nights before and her arms were so heavy with guilt she could barely grip the chains that held her in swing.
Back and forth. One. Two. Three.
She dragged the toes of her shoes in the sand as she moved, watching the line they created with every sweep.
The lines of my life, she thought. Life has become this for me.
Life had become moments waiting for people. Doctors. Nurses. Parents. Clients. Kids. Lovers. She waited for every body.
It was suddenly symbolic. Like a gray guitar. Like a Picasso. She drew a dog in sketch with her foot.
"Symbolic like this," she grinned.
A whole moment, created to mean nothing, was turning into one of those moments people never forget. She certainly wouldn't and she catalogued it in her 8mm memory for the next time she had to wait for him.
It never hurts to compare. It never hurts to measure the weight when you're not sure.
She was never sure.
Her soul felt like a market in Chinatown most days - the sound of people yelling, the smell of yesterday and the day before... the silhouette of a beast she couldn't define and a hundred scales for her to weigh her heart on, but not a single penny to pay for it.
She looked at her watch.
She lisitened for foot steps and a voice. She hoped he'd say something before she had to. She hoped he'd come up behind her and surprise her.
Maybe a surprise would have killed that moment and she could forget it. She could forget about the sand and the sun, and the sketch she made with her toe.
She could forget the gentle rock of the swing under her bum and the lull forcing her eyes to drop.
She could forget her guilt and what it meant to her to be Picasso.
She wished her life was one solid line. She wished she'd never took her feet off the ground to swing.
She wished she wasn't there at all.
She wished she wasn't waiting for him.
Minutes, she thought.
It's always minutes... and those minutes made up her life.
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