#78 Bear’s Hump

by Lisa Agosti

Lesley walks fast up the narrow path, nose buried in the woolen scarf, boots stomping the rage for Noel and his stubborn presumptions.

The dooming task of redecorating the restaurant in time for the good season.
Noel standing proud showing his last painting. His smile fading at her raised eyebrows. His offended retreat.

The woods are quite today, the tourists still to come and the animals just starting to wake up.
Lesley breaths it in.
She stops.

A bear.
A big, hairy, dark, scary, bear. Walking.
Walking towards her. Looking.
Looking at her.
Walking towards her.

The old man at the bar, telling tales of the deadly grizzly, of the bear’s hump. The laughter of his wrinkly mouth, the yellow teeth. The missing limb.

Lesley walks backwards, eyes lowered, growling a deep loud voice.
She climbs a tree, well aware that bears can do, too.

The chocolate cake at the restaurant, the forty layers of dark brown bliss that she never allowed herself to taste.

Lesley recoils at the realization that she should be thinking of her family. She should be having deep meaningful cathartic revelations.
Still, how stupid it is not to try that cake, not even once, hidden by Noel and the kids, as a treat for being such a good mother. And wife. And human being.

The bear is walking away.
He is gone.

Lesley is running home, her scarf flapping behind.
And she is hugging Noel, his painting is awesome.

The restaurant.
The fridge.
The chocolate.