Today's writing

“Are you scared?”

They say you can’t fold a piece of paper more than eight times. I’m testing that theory. The first fold holds promise, the sharp crease, the crinkle of the material. By the sixth fold, the effort seems pointless.

“Would you be?”

“Nah.”

We laugh. Of course his answer is bullshit. Of course I’m scared. We’re sitting in his little car in a parking lot in Walnut Creek. Walnut Creek would be like Berkeley if everything – streets, buildings, people – were scrubbed and power-washed. A few more Republicans, some extra popped collars and name-brand khakis, and the slight differences soothe me.

I loosen my grip. There it is: a crumpled sheet of paper on the floor of a car. The dramatic Hollywood moment doesn’t interest me. “Let’s go,” I say, and swing my feet out onto the pavement.

We’re parked behind the building. A landscaped path leads through a courtyard and around to the front. I have a garden of my own now and can identify some of the foliage: lavender, rosemary, alyssium. Amongst rosebushes and ivy lies an expansive man-made pond. Fish swim in those murky waters, big and friendly with harmless black eyes. They don’t seem to mind when I stare.