Theresa shifted restlessly on the short-cropped grass. There was a position -- that elusive, perfect reading position that required the least amount of energy to hold her novel in front of her eyes. Beyond the pages of the book, out of focus, people passed to and fro and frolicked with their dogs and children, and at the far end of the park, where the manicured lawn edged the cut rock of the seawall's bike path, an endless stream of cyclists and rollerbladers swished past the slower moving foot traffic.

The grass beneath her hadn't quite dried from the rain the night before, and the damp began to seep into her clothes on the seat of her pants, and on her elbows where she'd leaned to prop the book up just so. It was a distraction. A minor one, like the seagulls who loitered nearby in case she might throw a scrap of food to fight over, like a french fry or a piece of bread, or maybe something especially nice, like a chunk of battered cod from the fish-and-chips stand.

Her left foot itched. What was it about her left foot that made it itch? This thought pulled her from the printed words, and she gazed thoughtfully at the offending body part. Was it also, she wondered, actually a full inch longer than her right foot?

And was it reasonable for her to dislike sandals for that very reason?

She slipped her left foot under the protective cover of her right leg, and the unexpected movement startled a nearby seagull into crying out for help. Presently it realized its mistake and stopped.

Theresa closed her book, put on her round glasses, and gazed into the distance. There stood a man that she recognized from the day before. In the bookstore, he had peed himself then touched her hair. She tried to look inconspicuous and he moved on without noticing her.