The Garden’s Wrong Time

The scent of wet earth rises, dark and metallic, from the back garden. I stand near the cedar fence, noticing the weight of the dog’s paws. He is a terrier mix, small, and his eyes are steady, showing no blink. The dog’s fur holds the heat of a recent sun, even though the air is cool now. I walk past the potting bench. The house air smells of old tea and dust. I know a glass paperweight sits on the mahogany desk, an object I left behind. I lift my wrist to check my watch, but the time is not on the face. Across the hall, the dresser mirror shows the study. The mirror displays the room ten minutes prior: the armchair is empty, the green enamel cup rests beside the typewriter, and the light angle shifts slightly. The terrier shifts, tilting his head toward the mirror. I continue toward the door, wanting to see the desk.