Blowing in the Wind
The wind was up. Blowing. Relentless. "Gale force," she said. "Worse," he said. "How could it be worse than gale force?" " Well, easy," he said. "Just look at it." Which she had been doing for the last ten minutes, watching as the the wind rearranged the dirt in the bald patch of grass, then picked up that scourge of urban life, the plastic bag, carried it up, up, spinning, then hurled it towards them, a sudden splat against the picture window, a giant white eye on the glass. They both laughed and backed up. "Quit your staring," she said. "Careful, Mister," he said. "Remember you are only a bag." "Yes," she said, "and not even compostable." The bag slid an inch down the window, as if in agreement, then a sudden gust lifted it up, up, then a shift in the wind pa...