On my walk in the park this morning, a couple with a small child had staked out a picnic table. The man’s got the cell phone jammed to his ear, talking, on the bench with his elbows on his knees, his back against the concrete table, the child off to the side. The woman wants something from the car nearby. He turns, mid-conversation, aims the keys at the car, and beeps the door lock mechanism. But it doesn’t open, even as she’s walking toward the vehicle. She tells him that. He throws the keys to her, continuing his phone chat. She misses, has to pick them up from the ground. She walks toward the car. This might be her once chance to get away, just go, drive off. Leave him. Let him deal with it. Maybe he’ll notice her when she’s gone. Mama’s sorry. One day you’ll understand.
By the time she reached their car, I had moved on. I like to think that the least she did was to take a few moments for herself.
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