Park

She saw me pointing at a bird. “My fingernails are sweating,” I said. It was my turn to close my eyes.” That’s not possible,” she said. “You’re not a physician,” I said. I had forgotten to put the sunshade in the windshield of my car. My watch was 127 seconds ahead of the clock on my phone. Last week it had been at least 130. “Why did we bring a blanket,” she said. “Ants,” I said. I started thinking about ultimate Frisbee which made me angry. I could smell the sun burning and mutating all kinds of my cells. I had no memory of ever having to change a refrigerator light bulb. “What are you thinking about,” she said. “Have you ever had to change a refrigerator light bulb,” I said. “Huh,” she said. My stomach hurt. I couldn’t open both of my eyes at the same time. I kept trying. One always opened before the other. “Look at that baby. It’s sleeping,” she said. “Do we own a flashlight,” I said. An ant bit my toe. Most of the ice had melted in my tea. “What did you look like as a baby,” she said. “I don’t remember,” I said. I was afraid I would sneeze. I knew it would hurt. My heart would probably stop. How had I survived so many sneezes? “Besides. All babies look the same,” I said. “What,” she said. It was 2:19. It was 2:17. The watch could be slowing down. The phone could be speeding up. Maybe both. “They’re just round. Like a screaming egg.” I watched an ant crawl across her arm. I didn’t bother to watch her face. A man was dressed as a cow, with udders, handing out ice cream.

Daniel Spinks