The Definition of Moving On
Jane walks through the city-made park with the borrowed dog. She’s thinking that the dog is pleasant enough company: friendly and old and fat enough that she keeps a good pace. Plus, the dog only barks at people who she, herself, would bark at too, if only it was allowed.
As well, the dog reminds Jane of her best friend from childhood. But today, as the clouds bump and bounce against each other, playing monkey-in-the-middle with the sun, she’s not thinking of the past; she’s not feeling sorry.
And while the breeze cools and sticks to her bare arms, she’s barely thinking of him. Even though he was seated high up in the maple she just passed.
He was floating in the creek when she sat to rest, too. Lying on his back and giving an irregular kick to keep his legs from falling. He was staring, his eyes fixed, while she just kept talking to the dog as if they were alone: as if no one could hear the ridiculousness of her conversation with a dog.
Even when she walked past the pathetic petting zoo to give the donkey a bit of pity, she found him there. He was smiling at the chain link fence, feeding the animal some bread. Jane was about to tell him about better feed options, but kept her mouth shut instead.
So Jane just keeps walking with the leash in her right hand, a bag of shit in her left and a smile on her face.
