But it was the park, one of the famous parks, and it was Saturday before noon, and there were warm croissants in a paper bag, and coffee in a paper cup. And the park was like in a movie with green hills and palm trees and white Victorian houses in the backdrop. And people milled about, and had picnics, read books on checked blankets, and chased their children, chased their dogs.
The dogs were movie quality dogs, tiny and big, spotted. A big one tried to eat the croissants. A big one looped across the field like a horse.
The bases were white undershirts that didn't stay white. We played until we were tired.
And we were movie quality, almost. People stopped to watch. The vendor pushing a cart of ice cream stopped to watch. The bum stopped to watch. I was almost movie quality with my red numbered T-shirt and long-sleeved undershirt and jeans and curly brown pigtails and impatient jiggling in the outfield. I could be Maggie Gyllenhaal, Zooey Deschanel on a good day. On a good day, what is it I would want?
She's serious; she's tied her hair back.
This is not a movie, I tell myself. It's a little dirtier. There's trash on the ground. There's a smell.
I am in it. This is what forgetting feels like.
And what does this have to do with your writing? he asks. What does your life have to do with your writing?
Everything, everything.
She's SAFE, they said.
