Quinn sprawled languorously in the new grass, as she was prone to do. There was no arguing that she was a languorous sprawler. She then rolled onto her back to expose her face and chest to the vernal sun; feeling its early May warmth. Even through her coat; the ridiculous white fuzzy coat with the brown and black patches which everyone jokingly asked if she got at Goodwill. So many people thought they were clever. And so many people were wrong.

Growing tired of the sprawl and its languor, Quinn got up and settled into a chair instead. It was her favorite chair – acquired at a garage sale down the street. It was wide and inviting and met the tenets of the Goldilocks principle – just the right amount of hard and soft. As she nestled further into the cushion, she caught wind of her neighbors on the other side of the fence conversing. They were discussing the merits of Budweiser beer, above-ground pools, and yacht rock. Suffice it to say, they were not clever. Bored with their utter lack of imagination, Quinn tuned them out, stretched, and yawned. She noted a few small gauzy clouds dotting the otherwise clear sky and it stirred something in her. Something primitive and animalistic. Meanwhile, a cardinal and a blue jay politely took turns at the feeder in her backyard. This was just suspicious. Maybe even a little chilling. It was a rarity to witness two showy birds acting with such eerie politeness. But she shook it off.

Jason had filled the feeder with his own proprietary blend of seeds and thistles before he left for work that morning. Also before he kissed Quinn on the top of her head and told her he loved her. She loved him too. She’d show him later in her own ‘special’ way. (Nudge, nudge.) Ah, Jason. When she thought of him, a warmth encircled her heart as though it were wrapped in a cozy scarf. Yes, people talked about how Quinn and Jason were meant to be together. Inseparable. And they were. Well, except for the 40+ hours when Jason was at work each week. Which Quinn found acceptable because it allowed her time to be with herself and explore her rich inner tapestry (a term she’d recently acquired from one of Jason’s more clever friends). It also gave her a chance to spend time at the conservatory. 

No, Quinn was not studying to become a classical musician or artist. Though she was not opposed to the idea – had circumstances been different. This conservatory, however, was of the “room with a glass roof and walls” variety. It was attached to a house where a little girl lived with her father. Quinn didn’t know what had happened to the mother. Maybe she split. (Her own mother had split – though this was NOT something she was compelled to discuss. Because, like, it happened and now it’s over and she has Jason.) 

Anyhow, shortly after Quinn moved in with Jason the previous autumn, she’d been wandering the neighborhood while Jason was at work. It was then she happened upon the conservatory. She’d stopped and stared at it for a while when a little girl and her presumable father approached her. “Hi there!” said the little girl. “What’s your name?”

Quinn had ruffled for only a moment. Given her troubling past and history of abandonment and betrayal, she’d had to master the art of parsing the attitudes and motives of others early on if she was to survive. In other words, she had street smarts. And she knew almost immediately and in no uncertain terms that the little girl and her presumable father were no threat.

“Do you want to come into our glass house?” asked the little girl of Quinn.  “Come on!” she beckoned. Quinn looked at the man and he smiled and nodded, tousling the little girl’s hair. 

So Quinn followed them into the glass house conservatory. It was magical, this glass house. And not the kind of magic resulting from sleight of hand or other acts of deception. It was pure beauty. The floor was carpeted with an array of soft mossy ground cover and ferns that whispered luxuriously under her feet. A few small tropical trees stood lush against the backdrop of the brighter yet barer autumnal trees on the other side of the windows. Perhaps most impressively, when Quinn looked up, she noticed the conservatory was beclouded with dozens of hothouse orchids. It was a sight to behold. So she positioned herself in a sunny spot and became still. The little girl stood off to the side with her ankles crossed, arms akimbo, and her head drooping to her chest as though observing something there. That’s when Quinn saw the butterfly flitting on the girl’s belly. The perfect butterfly. And as much as she wanted to possess it, nothing in her went toward it. She was content to sit still in the sun and absorb the good juju of the space.

She’d spent the rest of the morning that day with the little girl and her father until the little girl became sleepy and crawled into her father’s lap. He began to tell her a story about bears or monkeys or some such creature and when he was finished, he began to hum a tune. The little girl’s arms loosened as she fell off to sleep in her father’s arms and Quinn quietly snuck out of the conservatory. 

She’d returned to the glass house a few times since that first time, though she usually snuck in. Trespassing was another skill she had acquired in her youth and she was quite accomplished at it. Plus, she didn’t want to bother the little girl and her father with her languorous sprawling. It wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. 

Quinn had dozed off in the garage sale chair and was stirred awake by the sound of Jason’s car pulling into the driveway. She jumped out of the chair and quickly pounced through the cat door to get into house. The ‘special’ demonstration of her love for Jason was sprawled out on the kitchen counter – its tiny rodent teeth in a perfect line; its glassed-over eyes like little black beads, its inconsiderable neck snapped. It was the feline version of magic and she couldn’t wait to see Jason’s joy at receiving such a clever gift. 

When occasionally overwhelmed by the ‘peoply-ness’ of people – even after all these years – Patrice would escape to the bathroom to sort her thoughts. To be alone with herself was once akin to torture but not anymore. She stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t mean to be vain, but her 75-year-old face was etched with beauty creases that multiplied when she smiled. Frankly, it was a delight. And to think, just twenty years earlier, those beauty creases were referred to as troublesome lines and wrinkles and were considered unsightly. 

Ah, twenty years ago. Those were particularly dark days.

Youth culture was thriving and those in their 20s professed to know more than their elders whom they largely ignored. A narcissistic man-child tyrant and convicted felon nearly disassembled democracy with the assistance of a cadre of his cowardly cohorts. Social media was invading peoples’ consciousness like a virus while an actual worldwide virus had recently taken out a sizable chunk of the population. And Mama Earth was writhing in pain – demonstrating her dissatisfaction through a series of horrific weather events. It must have felt to the Earth – that living and breathing entity that birthed us all – that no one was paying attention. No one was listening. 

But there were listeners. 

Empathetic bipeds whose voices had yet to rise above the din of the madding crowd, as it were. They seemed insignificant… at the time. They knew this. So they sat in the wings, awaiting their turn for a just a bit longer. It was okay though. They knew the power of patience. And strategizing. After all, they’d occupied that spot for a long time.

Despite her position as a high-powered lawyer, Patrice was among those empathetic souls. She was 55 at the time and was the first to admit that the world seemed to be spinning the wrong way on its axis. As though some mischievous cosmic child were responsible for the error. Yet even then, she held out hope. Dug in deep to access the good in herself so she could find it in others. Those she loved were doing the same. It was one of the ways they felt empowered.

Then by the grace of some slumbering god (or more likely a fierce brown goddess) who’d been rustled awake and was pissed about it, everything shifted dramatically. Without any logical explanation, the folks in the wings entered stage left and started making demands. They spoke with intelligence and conviction (and brilliant enunciation) about how they weren’t going to take anyone’s shit any longer. And people listened. 

The smartest of the current leaders knew to demure; to hand over the reins to them for a bit. Give them a chance to fuck up in their own way. Plus, the landed gentry and their ilk needed a break. They’d grown exhausted from wielding their certain brand of destruction and thought maybe a little R&R was called for. Some time at the cabin up north drinking fine whiskey and playing golf would do the trick. Meanwhile, the stupid and/or stubborn of the remaining leaders continued to engage in petty tribal warfare until in some merciful sweeping grand finale they managed to drive themselves extinct. And in record time. She had to hand it to them. For a group who put a premium on ‘banging,’ they went out with one. 

Patrice took one final glance in the mirror and smiled at herself again. She was pleased that she’d lived long enough to witness this new era. She never dreamed that women in their 70s and 80s and of all shapes, sizes, and colors would be the definition of beauty. In what world would toned young 30-year-olds envy her withered and aged skin so much that they sought surgeons who could give it to them? Some of the very same surgeons who’d made a killing a few decades before smoothing skin, no less. And yet, here they were. 

Brushing back her gorgeous frizzy grey hair and adding a little glitter to some of her deeper beauty creases, she exited the bathroom and returned to her chambers. Shutting the door behind her, she took a deep breath and nodded to the photographs of herself with Sandra, Ruth, Sonya, Elena, Ketanji, Kristen, Sun Ye, Zelda, and Maya. “Thank you,” she said to them (as she did every day) and then prepped for another busy day with the other SCOTUS judges.