By Phebe Jewell

Prufrock checks his smartwatch before stepping into the crosswalk. Pulse and blood oxygen good. On track to meet his daily steps. He could sprint and easily beat the light with seconds to spare, make even better time than yesterday. But should he presume to play with the numbers set for him? His body is a host for monitors, measuring what to eat in the morning, how to move in the afternoon, when to sleep in the evening. 

Voices, laughter from the park across the way. Prufrock has never dared to step inside this park. He’s read about the muggings, seen pictures of scab-faced zombies, pants at their ankles, lost in an undertow of inertia. A place without monitors, without eyes taking note.

But this October evening, the honeyed light stirs old currents inside him. Yellow leaves against blue skies. Bare arms lit by lamplight. The promise of skin on skin. The laughter comes again, and music. Drums and mandolins. Voices calling, responding. Flutes and cymbals. 

Prufrock’s legs lead him to a corner of the park near the fountain. A group of people dance around a campfire, singing and laughing. One of the dancers, an old man with a long gray beard and ponytail held by a tie-dyed ribbon, gestures to Prufrock. “Join us,” he calls, opening his arms in embrace. Prufrock glances at his wrist. Pulse slightly elevated, systolic above normal, but diastolic holding steady. 

“Life is Struggle” the people chant. “Only death is not” responds the old dancer, shuffling his feet in a stiff two-step. “Life is Struggle,” comes the chorus again, the chanters raising their arms up to the sky, lowering them around each others’ shoulders. The old man calls “Only death is not,” his head lifted toward the dimming light. Afraid to move, Prufrock looks to his wrist. What will the monitor tell him?

Prufrock studies the dancers more closely. A hodge-podge of bodies, skin tones, hair textures, and ages. All glow with a light he wants to inhabit. The drummers change the beat, and the dancers shift, each following their own path inside the music. No one wears earbuds or holds cell phones to record the dance. They share this moment and let it go.

Inching closer to the dancers, Prufrock halts. Will he look the fool, swaying to drums in the park with strangers? The old man waves a second invitation, and Prufrock leans toward the autumn light, slipping his smartwatch into his pocket as he joins the circle, not sure where he will move next or who he will be when he steps out.

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Phebe Jewell’s flash appears in numerous literary journals, including The Disappointed Housewife, Gooseberry Pie, Does It Have Pockets?, Ghost Parachute, JMWW Lit, and other wonderful publications. A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers for the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, a nonprofit providing college courses for incarcerated women, trans-identified, and gender non-conforming people in Washington State. Read her at https://phebejewellwrites.com.