An American Day

Rustling young trees that line the street left puddles of shadows on the sidewalk that dance over the feet of all the fast paced, be-here-now pedestrians. I watch them in slow motion, feeling the lightness of my weightless shoulders, as I spill my hours doing absolutely nothing and going absolutely nowhere. I whittle away the earned time off sitting casually on a bench chained to a tree outside my too-small, too-expensive guest house behind a $16 million dollar cell block. I’m sorry, by cell block I meant junior executive mansion, the kind with rosebush trellises and bay windows that only looked out to other mansions built on Blackberrys and cocaine. This is the kind of city that only high-quality drug dealers and overpaid actors can own houses, at any rate. But enough about them; I took my first day off as soon as the 90 day evaluation period was over and here I am, doing absolutely nothing but enjoying not being at work. Well, I suppose I’m dreading going back to the block tomorrow. A man wearing black slacks and a button down white shirt with short sleeves starts to approach the bench, and he catches my eye warily.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” And I shrug my utter lack of care. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He offers, not looking at me but leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“It sure is,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply, eyes squinting in the sun.

“I took my first day off as soon as professionally possible,” He continues to talk, “there’s nothing better than stopping to smell the roses.” he smiles, and I concur.

(282 words)