The Walking Lyndsey

The awkward circle of life goes round in the cemetery

I swear the only exercise she takes is on her solitary walks in the local cemetery by my house, a thin, pale spectre amongst gravestones and flora. Otherwise she’s lounging by the pool behind their house, movie-star shades under full sun yet seemingly no tan. I wonder what’s up with that. When inside I see her only sporadically and usually with family.

I decide to be friendly one day and walk over to chat by the pool though mostly to investigate her skin. She barely moves in her lounger.

“Who are you?”

“Oh hey, I live right over there. We’re practically neighbors. People tell me I kind of blend in with the property.”

“I’ve seen you,” she says with a measure of finality.

She doesn’t scare me, either.

“You don’t seem to burn. Doesn’t the sun bother you?”

She turns away for a moment.

“I don’t let it.”

“How do you manage that?”

“By not letting it. Duh.”

“You walk alone in there often,” I say with a gesture.

“I’m considering doing something drastic.” She breathes a small sigh.

“You’re not the first to know. This guy, he wants to see me, he said it sounded like a really selfish thing to do. Now I’m thinking he may be right.”

“How drastic?” I ask.

“Wicked drastic.”

I’ve seen this guy before, a slight fellow. What does she do? but ends up beholden. They have babies fairly quickly: twin boys born large, premature with overly soft skulls. They wear protective headgear when she visits and takes them for a short walk in the cemetery, the adorable little monsters trying to usurp an urn or two while she keeps up and tries her best parenting.

She looks tired, but happy, and glances my way.