Free The Kaleidoscope by B K Nault

to him. Her nose had a tiny bump, but was otherwise as refined and balanced as her other features.
    “What a fantastic day.” She faced the opposite wall, her shoulder to his, and lifted her face to the sun. “Sorry I was so short with you last night, Harry.” Her scarf had slipped back, and a tuft of springy dark hair peeked out. A ragdoll losing her stuffing.
    “You don’t have to apologize.” Harold worked open a plastic lid to free his bologna sandwich. If the images were going to continue upsetting people, he would have to keep the ’scope hidden. “You work in this building?”
    “Yep. I was at a firm across town until my chemo kicked me to the curb. They didn’t exactly let me go, but when I went back they’d hired someone else. I’m a legal secretary.”
    “That must be interesting.”
    “Can be. This firm’s a lot bigger. They have more cases, more than just divorces and child custody like the last one I was with. Depressing.” She’d removed a tub of something gray-ish and stuck a carrot stick into its center. “Hummus?”
    He declined. “Mind if I ask what you saw? In the Kaleidoscope?”
    “My grave.”
    Harold spit out his mouthful of V-8. Without hesitation, Pepper reached over to wipe his chin for him. “How do you know it was yours?” His back tingled.
    “Pretty obvious.” She traced letters in the air with the soiled napkin, spelling out imaginary words. “Suzanne Morton Eubanks.” She cocked her head in his direction. “It’s hard to believe it was someone else’s tombstone with my name on it.”
    The “S” on the mailbox was for Suzanne. “It would be quite a shock to see your own name on a headstone.” When his Uncle Ricky had died, Grandma had dragged Harold to the funeral, but he hid behind a potted plant while everyone talked about the tragic death. “I’m not surprised you were upset. That must have been… upsetting.”
    “I went home and had a long talk with myself.” Pepper’s sandaled feet swung back and forth, making her thin body rock. “I said, ‘Self, you can choose to dwell on death for the rest of whatever life you have left, or you can get up and live life.’” She bumped his shoulder. “And guess what, Harry. I choose life!” She yanked off the scarf and dropped it into his lap, climbed up on the bench and began leaping from one bench to the next, her sandals slapping the concrete.
    Harold was afraid she would slip and fall, and wondered whether he should first call someone, or check her for ABC’s if she did. But she jumped lightly, a sprite among the forest of potted birds of paradise. Airway, breathing, c…what was the C for?
    “I’ve always wanted to do this! Haven’t you?” Where the benches were too far apart, Pepper scissor-kicked to the ground and danced. Harold could breathe as long as she was safely on the ground, her arms aloft, her body swaying. Then she would leap up again, the sun reflecting off bald spots between shags of spirally hair. And she laughed. Not a scary, maniacal sound, but a child-like whiffle that whisked Harold back to the elementary school when Edna Velasquez had tried to jump around the lunchroom but fell and broke her arm when she slipped in pudding. Harold was the only one Edna didn’t pester to sign her cast. Circulation. That was what C stood for.
    Pepper collapsed next to him, panting, her caramel skin aglow. She was a china doll with kewpie lips and taffy-pulled earlobes. “That felt good, Harry.” She dabbed at her upper lip with the scarf, a tiny rattle in her breath. “You should dance more. We should all dance more.”
    The warmth from her body awoke something in him that had long been dormant. Confused emotions tangled somewhere in his soul, and he met her gaze.
    “What makes you dance, Harry? What stirs your soul?”
    She’d dared to pull at the thread he’d buried underneath years of proving himself worthy, smart. Sane. “I find satisfaction in my work.”
    “And what is that? No, wait.