FAÇADE, 5
“Wanna go to the park after we visit Mom tomorrow?” he asks last second.
Halfway to closing the door, I mumble, “Sure.”
Ray fires two more shots as I enter the house to resume some overdue cuddling with two twins.
The Long Brooke Park consists of six possible pathways along fresh-cut grass, tree-shadowed picnicking hills, and a small stream leading to a miniature waterfall underneath a photoesque bridge. Each pathway is a mile longer than the last, ranging from a mile to six. The more extensive pathways lead to a well-kept sidewalk, bike path, and in some locations, a small transcendental walkway.
The center of the park, by comparison to the outskirts, is a generic playground for both young romances by night and elderly couples by day. Save the bridge, nothing really stands out, and perhaps that is the reason Ray brings me here. Or he figures I won’t kill him in a public area.
Up ahead is a set of benches; around them, children play with toys or even the picnic sets. A few people read, though not many. Joggers blast by on the longer path, leaving cold gusts in their trails.
Ray’s dressed in the usual gear: torn jeans and a dress shirt. He says, “Look at all of them.”
More joggers pass by, and soon to pass a little further behind is a redheaded jogger, whom I follow with my eyes.
Ray adds, “All these people cluttering around this cookie-cutter park, smiling and playing with their kids. Kissing their loved ones.”
“All I see is an epicenter of façades,” I tell him. “All these people gossiping, pretending to listen to each other until it’s their turn to speak again. Showing the world how much better their lives are than everyone else’s.”
Halfway to closing the door, I mumble, “Sure.”
Ray fires two more shots as I enter the house to resume some overdue cuddling with two twins.
The Long Brooke Park consists of six possible pathways along fresh-cut grass, tree-shadowed picnicking hills, and a small stream leading to a miniature waterfall underneath a photoesque bridge. Each pathway is a mile longer than the last, ranging from a mile to six. The more extensive pathways lead to a well-kept sidewalk, bike path, and in some locations, a small transcendental walkway.
The center of the park, by comparison to the outskirts, is a generic playground for both young romances by night and elderly couples by day. Save the bridge, nothing really stands out, and perhaps that is the reason Ray brings me here. Or he figures I won’t kill him in a public area.
Up ahead is a set of benches; around them, children play with toys or even the picnic sets. A few people read, though not many. Joggers blast by on the longer path, leaving cold gusts in their trails.
Ray’s dressed in the usual gear: torn jeans and a dress shirt. He says, “Look at all of them.”
More joggers pass by, and soon to pass a little further behind is a redheaded jogger, whom I follow with my eyes.
Ray adds, “All these people cluttering around this cookie-cutter park, smiling and playing with their kids. Kissing their loved ones.”
“All I see is an epicenter of façades,” I tell him. “All these people gossiping, pretending to listen to each other until it’s their turn to speak again. Showing the world how much better their lives are than everyone else’s.”
