i_might_be_wrong tender_square tree fellers sawed bulky boughs that threatened to tip towards the blue brick house. doug emerged from the loitering bodies and crossed the street to chat, like a reporter drawn to where the action is. “even if i lived for a thousand years, i’d never get tired of watching this,” he smiled. she tilted her head. “it doesn’t look sick.” two branches yet to be amputated spread their herby hands. in a matter of minutes, a century-years-old tree would be gone. “i see you walk every morning,” doug mentioned. “always coming back around 7:45.” “that’s true,” she said. she learned not to offer more than was asked. doug motioned to her husband. “where’s this guy?” “sleeping,” she responded. the three of them idled for a few more moments before parting. as she and her husband walked on, she waited for an incredulous inquisition: “you walk in the mornings?” “where do you walk to?” “how long has this been going on?” “why didn’t you tell me?” yet her husband said nothing. and in the absence of his questions she anticipated a withdrawn sullenness. it didn’t materialize either. didn’t he see that she was gradually disappearing, hauled away piece by piece to be put to some other use, the core of what kind of person she really was exposed for safety’s sake? she considered her own narrative as she complained about him to others, studied her expectations; they hadn’t grow into tall tales, had they? a seed had to have been responsible for their propagation, no? 220707 what's it to you? who go blather from