Page 71 - WTP XII #3

Anita’s hand flies to her chest as if to help pull in the breath she sucks at frantically. Her back presses into the plasti-dipped grate of the bench, and she finds the amazon towering over her, hands in down vest pockets, purple and turquoise boots laced up to the ankle—the only color on the woman other than rosy cheeks on a pale face. Aside from the sad smirk she has pressed into her laugh lines, the amazon looks ready for any and all tests the natural world might present. Her eyes are almost as dewy as Bruce’s, some desire to ensure Anita sees she’s come in peace and conciliation.
Anita recognizes this sprinkling of grief in the sad smirk, and it makes her curse in her head, brings her body crashing back down to Earth, which is only narrowly preferable to the panic attack she’s just escaped.
“Hi,” the amazon says, looking away down at the popu- lated end of the park as if to give Anita a reprieve.
“Listen,” she continues, talking to all those randos and their mutts, “If you wanna tell me to fuck off—” she glances to see if Anita is listening, Anita is very much listening “—I will, no problem, no offense. But if you don’t mind me standing here, even if it’s just to run interference, then don’t say a word.” The amazon leans back on her pretty boot heels and rocks for- ward, looking off at all the action again, giving Anita more breathing room.
So Anita thinks, her hackles softening some thanks to the lack of pressing eye contact, and she finds she doesn’t want to immediately tell this mystery woman to fuck off. Taking this interval as at least a tempo- rary answer, the amazon looks down at Bruce and says, “Bruce, buddy, you look miserable.” Another condolence-filled, if not winning, smile.
Anita looks down at her only companion left in the world and finds the woman’s observation to be inac- curate; miserable not being a strong enough word.
“I was...” Anita stops herself, reaches down and takes three tries to accomplish the leash thumb flick, re- leasing Bruce to this month’s-long dream.
Bruce doesn’t budge and Anita silently curses herself. “Okay!” she chirps, less assurance in her voice than she’d hoped. He turns a forlorn eye over his shoulder and then looks to the amazon.
“Hey, boy,” the amazon says, producing a slightly tar- nished tennis ball from one vest pocket. She gives it a gentle shake with her gracefully bony hand, chipped, red nails cut short. She gives Anita a look as Bruce barely keeps his butt in the dirt, suddenly being driven by some force he can’t keep contained.
The woman’s look is a question, and Anita’s an- swer is, “Yeah,” quickly modified to, “...Yes, please. Thank you.”
The woman pulls back from the elbow and wings the ball in the direction of some nowheresville in the dog park—midway between several groups of dogs and their patient companions. Anita watches Bruce run at a pace she didn’t know was possible. She finds herself surprised by it. She’s also surprised at the ease with which the woman flung the ball, not even putting her hips into it. Anita, an athlete of sorts in her youth— track, cross country and coming off the bench for sporadic jumpers her sophomore and junior year— notes now the woman’s slenderness and stature. Ounces of muscle with that minimal amount of extra that seems all but forced on women when they reach certain ages. The calves that don’t taper all that much on their way up to her thighs must have come with years of pretty, well-worn boots. Anita is only mildly thrown off when she makes it all the way up to the woman’s face and finds her eyes watching Anita’s. Another smile breaks any condensing tensions.
“Between your silent questions and the ones he’s been asking me all day,” Anita nods toward Bruce “I’m starting to wonder if people need to talk as much as they do.” She looks off at a group of four women, one of whom bounces their eyes off of her with the slight- est hint of recognition, inferences of a knowing. Anita returns to the amazon, who only gives another half smile, hands deep in pockets, hips pushed forward.
“I was gonna take that as a suggestion,” the wom- an answers.
“No, please don’t—I’m sorry,” Anita’s guilt pipes up before her brain can realize that actually, silence wouldn’t be so bad.
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