Too Short A Season
The leaves flitted across the street like confetti, and if it weren’t for the heat Hugh could have mistaken it for a lovely day in autumn. Like many in his situation the less time he had the more he appreciated every moment, the mundane details hiding in plain sight: the girls tittering as they watch boys play football in the park, the old married couple feeding pigeons. He gave these people stories, backgrounds, imagining the lives they lead, and today he wondered what story someone would give him if they watched him at the park; would they notice his thinning hair and think his hoodie and tennis shoes were an attempt to cling to a long-faded youth? Would they see the scars on his neck and think he got mugged? In all of the stories he told over the years he never presumed any of them to be sick, not the girl with the head-scarf, or the too-skinny man, or even the boy with a limp, so why would anyone think that of him?