Disconnect

A white stone bench, a strategically positioned tree trunk. A scrap of pink cloth, dust to be brushed as it falls like a moon shower. The day is wrong, there are things one must do, proposals to write "We are going to marry the college." Gay laughter. I trace my foot on the ground, distracted. "Here, speak to her, we need to finish this." But I want to sit with a book, the sun refuses to glare, we must trudge to a clean office with messy timings and wait for a clerk who will grunt in answer to everything. I look back, the bench still looks the same, indifferent to me as I walk away. There's a hush as we walk between trees; a path created as gravel crunches beneath our feet and I catch my breath. No one else seems to notice. We need to hurry to the office. I will come back, when the day is right.