as the heat breached the 100 mark the other afternoon, a mother painted her young daughter's toe nails on a bench in the pocket park across the neighborhood's rite aid pharmacy. the mother studiously lifted the nail color brush, skimmed the excess polish against the lip of the vial, and daubed smidgens of scarlet on her daughter's nails. in the deep, intense, almost tropical, shade of yellow of the afternoon light, the cuticle's edges of her half-dozing daughter seemed suppurated.
a friend sneered at the scene. why, on earth, would people do that? at this time? of all places? got to be the heat.
the mother must have heard my friend because she suddenly looked up, then at us passing by the park. she didn't glower at us. maybe because, just in time, a truck carrying two wide panels of tinted windowpanes passed by. the afternoon light bounced against the glass and smeared her. now she had toad green face and her daughter had bleeding toes.
for a moment, everything was strange. and yet, nothing is strange: the tinder dry heat, the yellow of summer afternoon, scarlet on toes, tropical bronx, manicure on the park.
