I used to collect rocks. I would dig right into the dirt as my Mother warned me that my hands would no longer be clean. She would describe the filth that was sure to collect under my fingernails if I continued and the worms that may sneak between my fingers. I would keep digging. On my windowsill there were forty rocks perfectly aligned. Each one aroused no call for alarm; they were gray, brown, and beige. These rocks were ordinary, yet not when they reached my windowsill. I had chosen them as the sun climbed onto my back in the sweltering break of afternoon and took the effort to wash them clean from the ground. I had freed them from the cover that had buried them beneath the marching of feet. They were no longer lowly.
He was dressed in all black and his dog was just the same, a beautiful Labrador. The two of them were straggling through the gym with heavy feet and drowsy eyes. I could tell that they were sinking. As I looked away my muscles tightened and then released. I was working on the tone of my thighs.
I wondered how long the man had been blind. His cheeks were still pink as though he was not through with being a child. Up,down. Sigh. Sink. His head fell into his legs. The sweat on his thin arms was being unfair to him. He wanted to be strong.
Outside there were groups of teenagers on their college tour. I’m tired. A girl collapsed on her friend. They had been walking through the campus with the help of a guide.
“It’s almost over Anne”, her mother said.