A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 2/4)

Then, as I was about to set off walking again, past Mr. McCarthy's garden, my head indeed already about to be impertinently shaken in disbelief over its condition, I happened to glance down at the pavement, and what did I see but a big crack in the concrete, stretching all the way from Mr. McCarthy's fence and down to the very road itself. Now, again I must prompt you that superstitious is one thing that I am not, and may God throw my poor mother – bless her soul, never a selfish word passed over her angelic lips – out of heaven if ever an untruth escaped my own. But it is as true as is the Sahara the world's largest desert, the story about a former neighbour of mine – may she rest in peace, the floozy – who once had the misfortune of stepping on a crack so that the heel of her shoe got stuck in it and broke right off, so that – can you imagine? – she fell into the street right in front of a car, and was killed instantly.

Now, of course I would never be as flamboyant as to wear such high heeled shoes the manner of your poor, ill-fortunate young Molly there, but any the less it just goes to show, doesn't it, that you can never be too careful with those cracks in the pavement. One could argue, obviously, as those young minds usually do – as filled with newly acquainted logic they believe themselves to be – but, sadly, without much experience from a life quite lived, in sickness and in health (God rest my husband's soul, that he should not have the wits to curb his heart attack until he was done descending the stairs), not to mention learning-by-doing and by watching fatal accidents, that one could simply step over the crack in the pavement. But their restless minds, impatient to get themselves elsewhere, overlooks the fact that anything might happen. One could trip, or in other ways lose one's balance, ant there you are, one foot solidly and inexorably placed straight across the crack, and what, one may ask, do one do then? Of course, crossing the street was absolutely out of the question, as I could no longer see the black cat, and there was no telling how far it had followed the street, and I wasn't about to cross its path unwittingly, thank you very much!

However, as luck would have it, I seemed to remember being able to walk through the McCarthy garden and out on the other side, and thus end up quite close to the Little Shop around the Corner. And oh, I must admit I felt a good bit adventurous as after having had a good look around to make sure not a blessed soul (nor a damned one, mind you) was there to see me, I lifted the hook that kept the gate closed, and as "Dear me," I thought, "now that's a rusty gate and no mistake," I pushed it open with the tip of my right shoe – as open as it could be pushed, that is, for something seemed to be preventing it from reaching its full potential of openness. "How odd," I thought, as I snuck myself inside the garden, through the narrow opening, careful not to get any rust on my clean clothes, I am quite athletic for a woman my age, I must imprint on you. An age which I would never dream of revealing to you, of course, however much you might wish me to. One is a lady, after all.

The gate shut itself closed behind me with a loud clang!, which had me started a little, I must say. Admittedly, I had gotten myself into quite a state as I noticed how the hook had fallen back into its place, having the gate as closed and locked as if never it had been opened. But I told myself quite firmly that it was ridiculous of me to allow myself to be all worked up by such a small sort of a thing. After all, what could possibly disturb such a wonderfully regular day?