Elisa Vague
 
 
A Part, of an Evening
 
                Across the street, half of the fence was red.  A pink line
zigzagged where the red and white paint met.  The woman tensed her muscles on
the cold cement step.  She followed the jagged line with her eyes.  A step above
her, the man ground his heels on the crumbling step.  Periodically, the woman
brushed dust from her knee.
 “Was the fence red first?”
                 The man stopped scraping his heels.
 “I do not remember.  I don’t think a fence would be that color red.”
                 The woman nodded, patting her curled gray hair.
                 “It looks nice.”  His heels began to grind again.
                 “Which side?” she brushed her knee.
 “Well, both. All of it.  I like it.”
                 The woman bent, bringing her handbag to her lap.
                 “I wish someone would come, paint it all one way.  I like the
red side.  It is that much brighter.”  She snapped the clasp on her bag, fished
around and pulled out a keyring.
               “Oh,” he said.  “Oh, you mean the fence.”
                “You don’t?”  She began removing a key.
                “I meant your hair.  I like it.  It’s nice.”
                “Oh.”  She patted her head, the keys still clasped in her fist.
                “I had it done Tuesday.”  She removed the key and placed it on
the step below her.  She stretched her legs, pushing her suitcase to the left. 
She pulled the large green case up a step, brushed it off, and replaced it at
her side.
                “I don’t remember why they left.  Left the fence that way, too.” 
He began churning his heels faster.
 “It was not long after we came,” she said.  She pushed the loose key with her
foot.  It fell from the step into the grass.
 He looked across at the fence.  He turned and looked down the road, at the
headlights coming toward them.
                She pulled the strap of her purse over her left shoulder.  She
patted her hair and stood.

                As she bent toward the suitcase, the car stopped.