The glove

The glove sat in a puddle on the side of the dirt track. It was covered in grainy mud and two of the fingers were folded inside it.

I contemplated picking it up. I could pick it up and put it on the post to the side. Often I’d walked on tracks or even just through suburbs and had seen these random, lost items sitting on fences or posts. It was normal.

But, I kept walking. I think I’ve watched too many American crime shows. What if, by picking up that glove, I disturb the evidence of a serious crime and the serial killer gets away? This is the reason I no longer walk through the tall grass behind the basketball courts; I am paranoid that I will look closer and discover a hand or a foot or some other dismembered body part. It’s always dismembered. Never a whole body. I also avoid the park that cuts between the highway and the primary school and any car parks at night or on weekends.

This is the last place I dare go that is not concreted or inside, and after spotting that glove, I think I may be giving this a miss too. Perhaps I should stop watching these shows.

 

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