Pioneer Square Vignette No. 5

Happy Birthday, Mom. May 12, 1928. You would be 94.

Friedrich's leash, light blue silicon. It's made from recycled breast implants! I told her. It stretched straight in front of me, taught like dental floss stretched between my fingers. Fourth Avenue South, its row of tall, deciduous trees, that green of new spring that is almost fluorescent.

I saw butt cheeks. Round flesh where the hip bones meet the leg bones. The ground in a tree well absorbs a stream of urine between denim legs. Brown patina. Between people on the sidewalk and people on the bus, staring out windows. Going to their homes, jobs, hospitals, stores, drug deals, probation officers. Children, fathers. Wives, mothers. Faces long and sad.

Everybody watching, but she didn't care. She stood up, pulling pants over flesh. Hair matted and dull, she walked away.