Her hair hung in curls and I could see just how wet it was, not from the small pinch-sized droplets hanging at the bunched ends but from the dresses damp spots at her shoulders and breasts. Her arm hung lazy, tugged and pulled by the blonde child. She was looking at whatever he was and all over, mother eyes drawn to child’s curiosity. She didn’t know I was standing there and I paused. Summer wild flowers, uncut grass swayed in the breeze. Long, thin finger-shaped clouds hung overhead. I could’ve sworn I heard playful seagulls.
She must have felt my eyes and she raised hers, met mine. In that moment I didn’t recognize the child. The air stilled and the birds flew to new games. She gave me a familiar smile and a nod, silently acknowledging that I was admiring her happiness. I didn’t try hard to return her smile; I just let her see me, maybe for the first time in a long time. Her head swayed lackadaisically, strands of wet curls spilling over her face. Then the child momentarily reclaimed her attention and I watched her mother him, tell him the name of some little, fragile thing, and then lift her eyes back to mine so I could once again see something in her that I was without.
“Maybe I should go on ahead.” And then as they drew closer, I clarified: “You two are having a good time, maybe I should leave now.”
“If you leave now you’ll get back before its dark.” Not necessarily agreement one way or the other, just a fact to consider. The decision was mine to make and own. The sweet, unspoken implication was that she wanted me home she didn’t want me leaving at all. I thought about those birds overhead
I felt his little fingers on my pants, right beside my knee. He clutched it tight. My eyes lingered on her face as I reached downward, parting his blonde wisps with my fingers.
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The morning air is chilly as the bus turns onto the avenue. We’re heading to landmarks that mean nothing to him yet, he’ll just stare at the crowd of people walking on the lawns and the sidewalks. People, their shapes and their movements, are always more interesting than architecture; he’ll point at them, I’m the one who has to direct his attention to the monuments. I realize the chill comes from us passing into shadows created by city high-rises and the tall storefronts now on either side of us. I have no idea where we are but if I had to hazard a guess I’d bet this road had a “main” or “central” in its name.
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We ran, he more than six wide steps ahead. I was going to keep up. My legs burned and I couldn’t feel my feet, but I was going to find a way to keep up and grab his shirt collar. Or his belt, I hadn’t quite decided. He kept his arms close to his chest, pumping them back and forth and not entertaining a curious glance over his shoulder to see how close I was. He knew I was there, he didn’t need confirmation. Maybe he could feel my eyes, hear my bare feet slapping the asphalt.
I saw his shoulders pivot and suddenly his whole frame was twisting, his arms raising high above his head to avoid a near collision with a bag-carrying pedestrian. She gave a startled shout, falling backwards even though he completely dodged her. The distance between us narrowed. Just one more bad choice or obstacle like that would bring him within arm’s reach.
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