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It was not unusual for me to visit the park at that time of day. I did this often. It was not far from my house and my house was my studio. At the park I would inhale the fragrance of the flowers and the shrubbery, the pine and the eucalyptus trees, and routinely think it was pleasant to be outside. It was good to get outside of the house and the studio. The park was convenient.

I would sit on the grass on a rolling bank by the dry creek. The creek was dry throughout most of the year although it was not ornamental. There were footbridges in three locations where paths crossed the creek. During the rainy season it would carry what rain fell on the park. There was very little run-off that collected from the canyon. The creek would partially fill. But few people went to the park in the rain.

It was a park where people would come to walk their dogs or to exercise. There were many types of dogs in the area, most of them small. It was a park where widows came to walk their dogs and talk to other widows (you could say that about the park). They might watch the young men tossing Frisbees. Or they might talk with a widower.

The joggers wore brightly-colored outfits and ran along the gravel path that followed the boundaries of the park. The park meant something different to them. I thought it fascinating to watch them, or to unfocus my vision until I saw only the moving color of their suits. Sometimes a dog would chase them from a short distance. They would grow more aloof. They were brighter than the cars waiting in the parking lot. Pain and concentration showed on their faces as they passed. A sweat formed and they would glow in the sun.

A woman came and sat down on the bank rather close to me. She did not introduce herself. She neglected my presence entirely--instead she gazed at the empty creek bed and then, as if bored, she picked up a dried sycamore leaf and studied its markings.

Her closeness annoyed me. I felt her lack of respect for my personal space. I had to doubt her intentions, whatever they were.

She was older than myself. She was well-dressed and the style indicated that she had taste and, most likely, money. It was a puzzling situation. I couldn't stay and remain undistracted. I couldn't leave. I wouldn't feel at ease until the incident fulfilled what it had clearly began. So I wondered if the grass would stain her skirt. I wondered if she would allow it to do so.

Waiting for the answer, I watched the sun play on the lines of her blouse. I looked at her legs, her shoes, her purse. Her eyes were stunning. Her lips were large and deep red.

She showed no interest in the joggers or the dogs or the widows. Or in the young men with the Frisbee or in the flowers. "Your shirt is frayed," she said to me and smiled.

I felt quite silly as I glanced down at my shirt. I conceded to her the first move. A long, white thread hung from the lining. It looked anything but natty. I glanced back at her eyes and we smiled at each other, a polite smile. It lasted too long and the scene locked. The sun caught the rouge on her cheeks, the shine of the cars and the joggers and the dogs' coats, the widows, the Frisbees. I caught a tiny glint of sunlight from a tiny pair of scissors as she pulled them from her purse. I felt a dampness creep into my trousers.