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I thought the woman was dead. But she wasn’t. She was just sitting in her red pickup truck looking like she was dead. Her head was leaning against the window, her shiny silver barrette glittering in the sunlight. I watched her for a moment as I walked by. And then she moved. So I knew she wasn’t dead. But I wondered what I would have done if she was dead. Or if I would even have known whether she was dead. It is hard to tell through a car window whether someone is dead or not, head slumped over, hair falling in face.
The glittering barrette seemed to have more life than the woman did. But the woman is fine, she isn’t dead, I think she was just writing a letter, or finishing her radio program, or reading the last pages of a novel before she returned it to the library. I walked on.
She was still dead in my mind, even though I had seen her move. Even now, hours later, she still looked dead in my mind. My initial thought of her left a lasting impression. I imagined her being discovered, dead in her truck, days later, the smell of rotting flesh that had been sitting in the sun for several days seeping out of the truck and into the air and causing much alarm to all of those who walked by. But the problem is that they did walk by, they didn’t stop to see if she was alive or not, and so she rotted away and was ignored by all who passed. She was even ignored by me, who passed along like the rest, all thinking about where we were going and what we were going to say when we met the person we were meeting, or wondering whether the bus had already come and gone and I would be late for work, and would have to work late to make up for it, and I didn’t make coffee this morning and now it is far too late to stop and get some before I get on the bus, unless I missed the bus and then I have plenty of time to get coffee before the next bus.
But the woman still rots. And her body is prematurely decomposing because of the sun, and she is liquidating into her seat and the odor is seeping into the cushions and none of us walking by think long enough to feel sorry for whoever has to removed her from the truck, maybe having to use a spoon to scoop up her body that is falling to pieces and mushy like a sponge cake that has been sitting for too long and has soaked up too much liquid and simply turns to a puddle. Maybe all that will be left by the time she is removed is her clothing left in her slouched over position like a ghost had worn them and then left for another dimensional existence. Her shoes are still resting near the gas pedal filled only with nylons in a taupe color. Her barrette has fallen to the floor of the truck and rests no longer glittering in the sun because it is hidden in the shade.