---

Because the late August sky cloaks me in a cool flavor of blue. Because these streets are
blissfully barren, only a mother towing her children to Target for back-to-school bargains, a
scattering of returning weekenders trudging toward Trader Joe’s to restock. Because in the
library on the next corner a stack of best sellers pinpoints the end of my rainbow.

Then, a woman walks a few meters ahead of me, her pink canvas tote tugging, maybe books to
return, maybe also headed to the library, maybe also prizing this perfect day.

Then, a woman bounds out from Target’s loading bay. This woman wields a fire extinguisher in
the middle of the noiseless, near-empty block.

Then, a zinging blast as the tote-tugged woman is savaged with a peppering of white smoke,
savaged by the woman wielding a fire extinguisher in the middle of the block. Then she is lost in
a haze of a choking, chemical dusting.

Then the woman with the fire extinguisher turns toward me, hefting the hulking red cylinder and
spraying, spraying: I’m putting out fires, she says, Putting out fires.

Then I scurry across the street before she can hit me, like a rat on subway tracks, nose out from
behind a Fresh Direct truck.

Let’s say I cross back to ask Are you okay only when the attacker tears on.

Let’s say she asks Am I okay? What… is this? Let’s say she shakes.

Let’s say I stroke her arm, my fingers carving curved paths, sniff my powdered fingers, decide
it’s just chalk used to put out fires. Let’s say I continue to clean her, don’t ask if she minds. Yes, I say, you’re fine. It’s chalk, I say, Only chalk.

Maybe I point to the empanada vendor in the plaza, ask Water, would you like water?

Maybe she nods toward the Hydro Flask in her quivering hand. Maybe she says I’m good.

Maybe she says So embarrassed…so embarrassed…so…

Maybe I say No. No don’t be embarrassed. You got sprayed with white stuff. You didn’t do
anything wrong. Do you want to sit in the shade?

Maybe she says I’m good.

So, then. Let’s say, maybe, on this perfect day, I witness a woman walking alone, carrying a
packed pink tote and wearing colorful clogs? What if I see her savaged with a spray of smoke,
savaged by a woman wielding a fire extinguisher in the middle of the near-empty block and I
escape unscathed?

What if, down at the intersection, I watch a woman calling 911 while her tiny mutt mewls at her
ankles?

What if, without pausing, I pass a City Biker staring from the curb at the chalk-covered woman
who shakes and stammers? What if he aims a Poland Springs in her direction as if to offer it?

What if I stroll past all that commotion and, only after I collect my holds, order and swipe for my
sweet summer tea, hear sirens? Because it is, after all, my perfect, perfect day.

---

Catherine Chiarella Domonkos’ recent words appear in Centaur Lit, Gooseberry Pie, JMWW, and Bending Genres among other literary places. Her stories have been selected for Best Small Fictions, nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. For the complete collection, check out: www.catherinechiarelladomonkos.com.