I am there, observing him glide down the half pipe, then up--hop, kerplop, stop--I, pleasantly picnicking at the skate park. Under the incandescent daylight, sitting on an enameled black mesh bench, peering through a chain-link fence similarly enameled, I become more watchful of my Scooter, weaving to adjacent ramps and pipes--gaining speed, then kerplunk--keeping my eye on him: the helmet, elbow and knee pads; shoes laced; his obsessive need to get some air from the pipe's peak.

Thump... Slide.

Hills made of wood, the remaining landscape, cement smooth, but not so soft to go splat after colliding into a free-style Roller Blader--what am I to do? My intention is not to notice the near misses. "Keep you head up," I encourage him, while I keep my head down. To cope, get by day by day without fret, I attempt to empathize with his pipe dream. I am scared, not prepared for the next collision--fast becoming uneasy, quaky-queasy. I listen to the background music. Hhhuuummm....

"I'm ready for my slice," demands my Scooter through the other side of the fence, jarring me from my fear. "I'll wait here," he exclaims as he strode away.

Pizza, I gather.

I hustle to the food court and back, squeak-skidding my sneaker, toe stubbing almost tumbling to the floor like last week.

Chomp, chomp, chomp.

"Drink."

Glug, glug, glug.

"Napkin."

Crust boomerang, waxed paper plate fling into the trash can.

"Save the ice. Toss the wipe. Thanks! Gotta scoot," he commands, swerving around a clothes rack while en route to the pitfalls.

"Adjust your helmet! Fix your pads," I shout behind him.

I rake my face from forehead to chin, before scoffing down my packed lunch while reading a magazine--taking a sip of bottled water, calmly casing the scene after hearing a yelp!