Handwriting in Concrete

by Guy Biederman

    You wake up one morning and there’s a chunk of concrete on your foot.
    “Honeeey? Do you know who put this concrete on my foot?”
    “Haven’t the faintest,” she says from the bathroom.
    “ But I have books to return, lectures to give, coffee houses to hang out in . . .”
    The toilet flushes.
    “Hon? Did you remember to put the seat up?”
    “Still not funny,” she says walking into the bedroom. “Let me look at that foot.”
    You swing your five-pound foot up onto the bed. The cement has a rough texture and is slightly wet.
    “Not bad,” she murmurs.
    But you’re not sure what she’s admiring — your effort, or the crude sculpture at the end of your leg.
    “Whoever did this must be close by. Did you see anyone?”
    “Not a soul.” She smiles. “Hey, can I sign it?”
    When she smiles like that she gets anything she wants — and knows it.
    “Sure.”
    She pokes her finger into the wet concrete and writes:
    ABSTRACT
    “Hey, what are you doing?”
    “Well, maybe you’ve been a little too concrete, lately.”
    She runs away. Your concrete foot slams the floor. “Not funny,” You drag yourself into the kitchen, leaving hefty gouges in the wood, and find her at the table, an origami master, making a pair of crutches out of the Sunday paper.
    “Wow, thanks.”
    She grins and sips her spicy chai.     “Satisfaction guaranteed.”
    “Now Ill get to the bottom of this,” you say, crutching out the door, down the steps — past a trowel and her gloves draped over a purple bucket.