She didn't mean to sit
down. Her feet had just
stopped moving, the way
a song stops when no one
is listening anymore.
The park bench was warm
where the sun had been
sitting all morning. She
sat in that warm spot.
She didn't think. She
didn't plan. The trees
did their slow green
breathing around her and
she let them.
Somewhere above her, a
small wind moved a leaf
from one branch to
another and called it a
Tuesday.
She stayed for three
quarters of an hour. She
didn't take her phone
out. She didn't solve
anything. When she
finally stood up, the
emptiness was still
there, but it had a
shape now — a soft
one, the shape of a
bench in a park that
didn't ask her to be
anything.
She walked home a little
slower than she came.