Chalk Lines

I slipped beneath our propped lobby door and paced out onto the wide avenue sidewalk. Stretched across the pale concrete was a freshly drawn hopscotch grid, bold white and ochre chalk cutting sharp geometric lanes across the stone. Near the curb, a small zinc washer caught my eye. I nudged it forward with the toe of my boot until it skidded cleanly into square seven. Dropping into a low crouch, I gauged the spacing between the lines. Two deliberate bounds carried me through the single boxes, boots striking the center of each numeral before sticking a wide, grounded split-landing across four and five. A faint puff of chalk dust rose from my heels, crisp and satisfying.