Bench.

Maybe it's all the teen dystopian fiction I've been reading lately, but I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the present ordinariness. To simply sit in this ten-bench park, free and alive, unhunted, fearlessly showing my unfamous face in public. Exchanging smiles with a cool-looking guy with dyed gray hair over tight gray pants and a gray sweater. Being ignored by an Asian girl with a tough, disengaged face. I project my own memories onto her expression, decide she's in a hurry and perhaps feeling too fragile to risk a smile or warmth going unreturned, so she doesn't even bother with a glance.

A man walks his red bike past me in a whiff of cigarette scent. How do his black jeans stay on? I don't see a belt. They gather around his thighs. Above them I see defined cheeks clad in green fabric festooned with shamrocks. He and his friend respond to a shout-out from the two men who have been talking in the park since before I arrived: Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal." Irish or his pal, I can't tell which, can't stop to talk because he is going to get a job application, despite the open skepticism of IKBD as to his destination.

I'm not as grateful as I want to be for this life I get to live. I should be daily kissing my dirty floors in thanks that I no longer scrub toilets three-plus times a week. Back when cleaning was my job, my more-than-full-time job, I think I thought I'd be thankful every day to have moved on. Maybe I was, for a week or two.

Red Basketball Shorts and "I'm Kind of a Big Deal" (that's what his black shirt says in red letters) raise their voices, interrupting my thoughts. They're complaining incredulously about some bitch, some situation having to do with coffee or creamer or both.

The Asian girl from earlier walks back from the way she came. I now notice that her hair is long, red and blonde. She wears neat jorts and a khaki backpack nearly the size of her torso.

"I saw her titties once," I don't dare turn my head as I flick my eyes to try to tell who said this. How I wish I could hear them better! Whose titties?

Bees are... pollinating... the clovers in the grass to my left, though whatever's happening down there looks too personal for this park. There's a normal-looking fuzzy yellow one and a littler red guy that almost looks more like a wasp. A teenage bee? A preteen bee in his awkward phase?

RBS and IKBD have turned on rap music and changed their topic of conversation to Jeffrey Dahmer. The louder one of them says, "fuck that," a few times. Fuck what?, I think. Right away, as if he heard me: "Fuck you, bitch." The one with the titties? I chance another glance from behind my sunglasses. I notice that RBS wears royal blue Nike socks over his red-laced black shoes.

A man in a green Subway T-shirt walks by them carrying a bag of food. His pants are black, drooping, his butt fully exposed. Red shiny shorts. Maybe he's glad to be off work. I imagine him stepping into the parking lot at the end of his shift, tugging them down, breathing a sigh of relief and comfort. I don't suppose they let him assemble and serve sandwiches in that condition, but what do I know?

Many people have exercised past me with varying degrees of speed and athletic style. They run because they want to and not because they are being chased, or have to get somewhere quickly.

I peek back at the conversing men. IKBD wears ripped and faded jeans with holes in the knees. He drinks from a can that's mostly covered by a brown paper bag. RBS has on a black backpack and a light baseball cap. He smokes a cigarette. The bench beside them holds another backpack and two more beverages.

As I left my apartment to come here, I thought, "thank God." For what, I didn't have specifically in mind. The fine, fair weather, I suppose. "Thank God." The glorious sunlight. "Thank God." Like a compulsion, the anti-anxiety, the feeling of anxiety disappearing step by step: "Thank God thank God thank God."

Suddenly I find RBS and IKBD have mobilized without my noticing. They make it a quarter of a way around the circle that is the park, now both wearing backpacks. They stop and talk some more. IKBD makes what appears to be an obscene hand gesture, then moves his body in a way that's familiar to me from the days I used to play the Sims. I've never seen a human do this. A full-body side-to-side waggle ending with a hip bump to the side. Continuing forward, he throws his can bag into the trash and the two take off down the sidewalk together.

Now I'm alone at the park, and the sound of the wind is not better than their profanity-laced indecipherable chatter. I didn't have an agenda for my park-time that they could ruin. They enhanced it, really. My objective was to be here, and I am. Just me and the countless cars streaming by. The joggers.

This one's a marathoner unless he stole that Flying Pig shirt. He checks his watch, as I haven't seen any others do. He means business, I invent. He has a bald spot and probably a busy life, some pre-teen-ish kids and a wife. He runs the park's circle and goes back the way he came, as also no one has before him. He doesn't have hours to kill on this, so he's honed his route for maximum efficiency. Tuesdays are quick jaunt runs. He's the anti-me. No one's waiting for me at home. I could've jogged today but actively opted not to so I wouldn't have to wash my hair. My shorts, my athleticism, are hiding under a pretty dress instead of out for all to see.

My secret Spandex protect me from this black metal bench. It's warm enough, but visibly unwashed. Cast by DuMor. Inc. Is that a pun? What else do they make besides benches?

On my way home I pass two mulberry bushes. My rapture at the first one is kind of short-lived as I don't see many ripe berries. The second one is busting with them, and I don't hesitate. For the past two years I have waited too long, figuring they'd be around all summer. Now I realize the window is short. The fingers on my free hand are purple before I remember the keys at the bottom of my off-white tote bag. I walk back the last block with both hands palms up, fingers curled: one full of berries, one just stained. A man calls to me from his van, "Mulberries?" I pause a quick second before replying, "Yeah!" with a smile. I think about the low profile I keep with strange men. Then I realize that is the only word anyone's spoken to me in person all day.