The time I tried for a breather.
I walk three blocks from work to find a patch of grass under the shade of a strong tree. My neck is bare as morning as I untangle my scarf and drape it on the ground. I sit with my back pressed hard against the tree; I've forgotten what it's like to rely on something larger than myself.
Up ahead, there is a rally. "The carbon tax is evil," says a voice through a megaphone, and the crowd cheers like claps of thunder. I pay no attention to them or to the sky, only to my book and to the swill of an overpriced chai in my mouth.
A man with a dog walks over to talk to me. He is not the first stranger this week; I realise how strongly I must reek of desperation. He talks but I take in none of it, save for the fact that he owns a real estate agency. I am smiling and nodding at the man who is probably twenty years my senior, tilting my head to one side as if to pour his words out through my ears, back into the soil.
"Oh shit," he says. I follow his gaze to find that his dog has run amok at a herd of policemen on horses. The man twenty years my senior runs off and I watch in detached amusement.
Dog back on the leash, he walks over and I refuse him my number. "I'm seeing someone," I say. He laughs, pointing at the spine in my hands. "Not with that book, you're not."
"Fine," I say through giggles and a firm gaze. "I'm not seeing someone, I'm grieving."
"Well anytime you'd like to have lunch," he says, "Give me a call." He hands me his business card. Graciously I take it and shake his hand. Walk my three blocks back to work, and I realise I have a new bookmark to wedge between pages ten and eleven.
All in the space of a lunch hour, I think as I swig the last of my cold chai.