I wrote more words. It’s not about much, but, seriously, what did you expect?

I spent a long time looking for the word to replace “panorama” below. I was thinking of the school project where you built three-dimensional scenes (usually from history) in shoeboxes or cardboard boxes. If anyone thinks of the word, let me know!

Update: The mighty Chuck supplied the word: "diorama." The imagery is now complete, even if the writing is far from it.

We walk and she disregards me quietly. I probe conversation starters that she ignores, deflecting each lunge with an artful parry that leaves me open for a riposte. She doesn’t follow the opportunity. We wait at the light. She opens her button-covered handbag and pulls out a phone. She dials a number and chats loudly. She doesn’t have anything to talk about but that doesn’t stop her from talking. I hear only one side of the conversation. Sometimes talk is about company and not about conclusions or information. In the distance, the trees gain depth as the evening sun peeks through the crowded sky as clouds droop across the horizons like exploding pillows.

She doesn’t talk long. I see her black mood swing over to the conversation, and she hangs up. I didn’t hear her farewell. She ended the conversation in mid-sentence. I replay her end of the exchange and convince myself that she hung up without finishing the call. Either that or she was not talking to anyone in the first place. I’m not sure which one would be more telling. We walk down a hill. The horizon turns gray with small puffy cloud lining its edge like dashed lines where children draw personalities.

The hill grows steeper. I hum until I find a tune. It sounds like something from the eighties but I can’t place it. She doesn’t notice, not even after the tenth beat. At the bottom of the hill I try to slow down but before I realize I’m running down the last steps. She falls behind me. I decide not to slow. She’ll catch up or not. I don’t look back. I lift my chin and my eyes follow the pink light falling across the peaks of the clouds.

At the next light I realize I lost her. She crossed at some point and disappeared. I walk on oblivious. It’s better this way. Cars zip through the lanes. I accelerate to cross the blinking lights and my feet swell. I feel my day’s worries form as bags under my feet. I squeeze each foot and squish my toes with my steps to release the puss. There should be easier ways to crush the days’ troubles.

I arrive home to an empty house. The door locked, the mail scattered past the letter opening and onto the carpeted doormat. I enjoy the autumn air for a few more breathes before closing the door. My evening life starts through shallow breaths. I step over the letters and into the living room. Yellow pillows cover the couch. I slide into the clearing I created yesterday. I lift my arms and rest them on the surrounding pillows. My elbows reach my ears and I resist the urge to swing my arms like a bird to clear the pillows. Instead I twist the pillow’s golden fringe and look up and over the oversized television to the window. The clouds are dark and the sky’s blue faded. The trees no longer pop like three-dimensional diorama. With the setting sun, the trees lose their illusion and fade into the background of the hills.

I watch the door and wait for her return. Even in her blackest mood she will find her way back home.