Dan was going to stand in the park at the centre of the square for the whole afternoon, but he’s only been here for twenty minutes and that already seems like a long time. He lets one knee slump and shifts his negligible weight onto his skinny hip. He’s questioning if Amy is even at her desk.
Is her lunch break from one o’clock, or until one o’clock?
Perhaps he could text her?
Perhaps not yet.
The dog had sat down straight away. Soon after that, it collapsed its front legs too, stretching out its throat on the patchy grass next to Dan’s skateboard.
Dammit dog, you’re not even facing her office, Dan thinks, resentful that his pet is ‘not emotionally supportive’. Amy had used that phrase about him when they last met.
Well, he’s showing her support now.
He’s literally there for her.
Here for her.
The leaves are just budding on the early spring trees so she’ll be able to see straight into the park.
He’s glad it’s a dry day.
She’ll see him.
She can see the park from where she sits, can’t she? Has she ever said?
Dan knows which window fronts her office.
At least, he knows which floor it’s on.
Well, he thinks he does.
He can’t see any desks though. Looking up, the many windows in the stone façade only reflect the sharp blue sky above. It looks as if the building is beginning to dissolve into the background.
“If I can’t see her, can she see me?” Dan mumbles to himself.
At his voice, the dog lifts its eyes to him but not its head.
“If she’s sat down…?”
Dan tries to calculate the angle of vision and wonders if it would alter much if he sat down.
Andrew Deathe lives in Wales. For work he writes labels for museum objects; flash stories in themselves, although not (always) fictions. As well as short stories, he has a novel in progress. Of course he does, he’s middle-aged. He has no aptitude for online promotion but is @AndrewDeathe to tweet this page.