He pulls over, gets out of the car, and takes the phone call. 

For the next 20 minutes he paces, mostly quiet, along a chain-link fence, unseeing what on the other side used to be a parking lot with a bus stop and, to the right, a power plant. 

The cracks in the asphalt. Here and there, the crabgrass.  

Caught midway, a deflated black ball. 

The call ends. He checks his watch. Time to pick up the kids, do homework, prepare for the next day, have a drink, two, sleep.  

He straightens his back. Takes a deep breath.  

The smell of chamomile. 

He takes in the sight. 

The dull black. The yellow lines. The missing parking stops.  
The overgrown planter in the middle. 
The generic sky, the trees, the nameless birds.  

What used to be a squirrel. 

As it should, it reminds him of childhood. Of Martins Ferry, Ohio. 
But it could be Bucharest. It could be Rome.  

It could be here. 

A place abandoned, threadbare, in a capsized afternoon, with trees out of focus and the smell of dust and chamomile. 

A place telling him go or I will eat you. 

______

Juste Millieu 18 , Winter 2025