[509 words]
It’s a beautiful spring day, lovely for driving, but I’m tired. I’ve been driving for three hours. I share driving with no one now, and I need a break, so the sign for the Edison stop on the New Jersey turnpike calls me.
The parking lot is crowded, not too many spots. Families and partners mill about in the sun and the warm air.
No one is with me. Not anymore.
I squeeze the old Chevy in. I used to be proud of how I could slide into a spot. Easy in, like Flynn. A stupid expression, I know. But I always said it just to see the reaction. Now I say it to myself.
The food court stands before me like a vision.
On the walk there, a family lingers. Mother, father, two little girls who are classic blonds like they brought the sun down with them. They’re holding a leash, which leads to a fluffy dog as blond as the kids.
There’s a high stone barrier tall enough to sit on before the place. I plop on it for a minute. The girls smile.
The mother watches me and nods. Friendly, but careful. The father gives me a look.
I half expect him to make a gesture like from the movies, indicating he’s got his eyes on me. The humor almost makes me smile. But I don’t.
My bladder is demanding attention. It’s as petulant and needy as a whiny kid. I do know about whiny kids.
The hall inside is like something out of a medieval movie. In the front a line of food stalls. A greasy smell attracts the crowds.
Once a long, long time ago. I came with someone. And two young girls like the ones outside, but a little older. The place was packed with a tattooed collection of people looking like they had just got released from prison.
I recall saying it was prisoner visiting day. The person I was with took the girls to the bathroom one at a time, while I waited with the other. I smiled, and we both thought it was funny then. I almost smile now. But I don’t.
I make it to the bathroom and back.
The food stalls have all the junk food in the world, but I am not hungry in the least. I’m often not hungry now.
I need to drive so I get a coffee.
Outside, the little girls are playing with the dog. The parents are standing near the doggy do collector container.
I plop down on the wall. Like it’s my wall, now.
The dog sees me and runs over. Why is that poor creature attracted to me?
The girls follow it.
The parents stride over, trying not to appear to be running.
One toddler notices. She says, “Mister, are you crying?”
The other one says, “Are you sad?”
The parents are getting closer.
I rise, holding my coffee. “No kids. I’m fine,” I say, and dear God, I wish I was.
Ed Kratz is a retired computer specialist who has been writing a while. He’s been published in a few places like Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction, and Flash Fiction Magazine.
