The signmakers

February 11, 2017

Maybe we can rest this weekend? she suggested. Maybe we can find time to be ourselves?

We are ourselves, he said. Who else would we be?

She remembered, then, a time when they planned frivolous days, stopping at bars and restaurants, shopping in stores where there was not a single thing they needed. Those people they had been, meandering the city hand in hand, felt like aliens.

Now, they made signs. So many signs. Constant sign-making, and slogan-drafting. Her palm was calloused from holding broomstick handles topped with these blaring missives, and, she wondered, was anyone reading?

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