I couldn’t see them that well at first. I was on my bike still and preoccupied with the idea of taking a picture through the opening in the fence. They were walking behind me toward the full light of the sun, which washed out their features. I heard them though. He spoke in a harsh tone. “Why do you do these things to make me unhappy?” He said other things in a rapid succession too, which I don’t remember word for word. She never replied to him. I thought that odd. A quarreling couple would lob the hurts and insults back and forth, keeping score for each one that hit and each one that missed. “You could have called me. That’s why you have the phone.” It was his voice again, anger and hurt fused.
So I looked. Turned my head and glanced in their direction. Both of them tall and willowy and dressed in jeans and T-shirst. He appeared older than the voice suggested. And she, with her long hair lapping in the wind turned out to be a teenager, if that. Father and daughter. I should have known that without looking. Their relationship was spoken for loud and clear in her silence.