In the Garden

         She sat under the oak tree, always. Once upon a time there was a hastily-sawn swing for her to sit on, but the hairy strings had snapped long ago. While she sat, she would stare, dead-eyed, at nothing in particular, always for almost exactly ten minutes; I timed her a few times. She never told me what she was thinking; if I ever asked, she would hit me with that look that says 'death is imminent if you proceed with this line of questioning'. I didn't care enough to risk my life, or worse, my manhood. She was one of those girls, you see, pink icing on a switchblade, you wouldn't want to push her too far.
         Now I care, of course, now that it's too late. I sometimes catch a glimpse of her from the window as I pass, but it always seems to be a blanket swaying in the breeze, or Bingo, our dog, pouncing at an antagonistic squirrel. I know better than that though. She can't hide from me.