Library Park

It's just about the most perfect weather I can imagine right now. My curls are sparkling red and sticky at the end when they wind in front my my eyes. And the tulips are pink, staring at me with black eyes, reminding me of their days in Amsterdam... and Turkey... Ahead the tangled black branches cast a map onto the pavement that a fat pigeon is trying to navigate. An old woman in a blue sweater clutches a magazine and looks bewildered as she walks towards me. To my right, the tulips burst into coral and the green is the brightest I have ever seen. Ahead a lion rests beyond the trees-- too proud to turn and see me, sweetly cold in its stone silence.

Now the sun is beating stronger. It's not perfect anymore and I wish I didn't have my jacket on. My curls aren't dancing and the wisps of hair around my temples slowly stick to my ears. I know I should go into the library soon... now. But the weather doesn't want me to. And the sun has faded all at once, as if there's a blue filter that's been cast over the world that my eyes will not adjust to.

Ok. It's back. And strong.

And a man smells of cigars. And a girl eats her lunch and looks beautiful in long dangling black earrings and a draped white shirt and I feel jealous.

It's weird to see my hands without nail polish. My fingers look like a child's.

I need to take the Circle Line soon. Maybe I can go next week, some weekday...

Ok. At 1:45 I'll go inside to work. For now, I'll simply sit.