By ©Heather Arneson
Sadie Coleridge Gold had an umbrella that was white, red and green and she carried it around with her for a week whether it rained, or even if it wasn’t predicted. She wanted to be one of those unique characters others talked about when she got older. And be around eternally after she died. But she was only 40.
It behooved her to say, “No, no-one’s sitting here,” even if the person asking was vaguely attractive and said something nice to her about her hair, which she often struck with a hot iron each morning. He twirled his hand around the knotted pine bench arm above it for a moment and then presented it to her, “Hello, I’m Dane.”
“Oh! You don’t hear that name very often!”
He wrinkled his brow and suddenly seemed agitated with her, “I’m waiting for someone.”
She noticed her umbrella was in between them and moved it over to her left side, “Oh, alright.”
They sat in silence for a while amidst a business library full of benches and meeting rooms.
“Your feet smell!” She blurted out, unaware of how loud it was and when the thought manifested just before it fell out of her mouth, but either way it lay there as they sat, “I’m sorry, but they do.”