I Guess It's Just Leaves
"This table seems very short," Jenna said.
"Yes, it does," I agreed.
Outside, on Frank Sinatra Drive, fall was happening.
"I looked up for a second and thought it was snowing," Jenna said.
Behind me, on the other side of the exposed brick and through the glass windows just outside of Maxwell's a million golden leaves rained down onto the street. They danced from their homes, fast and strong and desperate; a lovely, wild marathon from tree limbs to ground.
It seemed fake. It seemed almost wrong.
"What's going on out there?" someone else asked.
"I guess it's just leaves."