It's sunny outside.
I'm sitting on a park bench. It's chipped in some places, which is pretty. There's a family of birds up in the big tree. I think one's a mother? I don't really like birds, so I don't pay attention.
The sun's in my face, and I tip my head back and let it just be on my face. I didn't bring a hat. Mum kept telling me to, so I didn't.
Small kids run past the bench. Some frazzled mother with her hair in a messy ponytail comes charging after them. The birds make some more noise in the tree.
It's sunny.
I reach into my bag and take out my book. Got this one - Art Theory As Visual Epistemology - from a used book store. The top right corner is dog-eaten, and I've been trying to fix it for days. Not much use.
It's sunny out here.
A kid laughs, and I turn the page.
I'm beginning to sweat, and my glasses are sliding down my nose. Every time I push them back up, they find their way down. My face feels drenched. Am I overreacting?
I lick my finger and turn another page. I'm soaking in the words, and in the sun, I'm finding myself losing track of time, but I'm here and I'm reading and -
I shut the book. A bunch of teens are coming into the park. I can hear music coming from their Bluetooth speaker. I tap my foot, closing my eyes.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The kids are sitting in the grass, and they're passing a joint between them. I can smell the smoke from here. It's disgusting.
But I'm jealous. I'm jealous as they keep laughing, and I'm jealous as I make my way out of the park, book in bag. I don't remember putting the book in the bag. When did I start walking?
Their laughter rings in my ears, and it's so familiar and terrifying that I stop to take a breath halfway down the street. They're singing along to music and being friends, and I'm here with my art book in my bag and sweat in my armpits.
My feet are slapping the pavement as the noise dies behind me and I die with them.
~
The house smells like vanilla bean and some kind of pasta sauce.
My mum's in the kitchen and I can hear her humming something. She's like a teenager's Bluetooth speaker, she never stops playing music. It's familiar and it's annoying.
I drop my bag beside the closed front door, I put my shoes in the cubby. I put my hand to my pink face. Sunburn. Aloe vera. Shit.
'I left the lakes I knew to follow you... only to be with you. Would you?'
I make my way into the kitchen, hating how loud my feet are. I figured out how to walk quietly years ago. Rock your feet like boats, heel to toe.
My mother's hair is up in a ponytail, like the mum in the park with the Terror Children. She stirs the pot on the stove and taps her bare feet against the tiles. The house smells like home. It's almost an empty scent.
'Hi,' I say. She turns around and smiles at me. I look at her.
'Sunburned?' she says. I nod. Mum tuts, cleans her tomato-sauce hands on a dishcloth, then grabs the aloe vera gel from the window. She walks over to me, and her feet don't rock like boats. Mum moves like she wants to make noise.
'I told you to wear a hat.' A dab of aloe on my nose. I wince at the cold.
'I told you I don't like tomato sauce.' A sigh.
