That long-nosed alien creature lands lightly, barely noticed at first, then begins to drill down, like an oil rig, right to the heart. You nicknamed the new boss Weevil, for you've seen what that creature can do. It's a bloated pest that can destroy a seed, robbing its chance to become an oak, leaving it empty and worthless. The monster plants an egg that bursts open and the grub begins to feed. Weevil devours every pitch you ever wrote, every contact in your hard drive. Another year and you'd have made the promotion.
But the park is littered with acorns, and the weevils have all taken flight. You kick off your loafers and feel damp soil beneath calloused feet. You long to burrow your toes into rich loam.
You think of one more day making coffee for a guy who calls you Sweetheart while passing the kernel of every precious idea to his hand-picked guy, leaving you with the discarded shell, and you sit and think and sit and think until you're so knotted up and twisted that all you can do is wrap your arms around yourself and sway—buffeted by the unexpected squall.
You know you should go back, but the storm breaks and you linger. You can breathe beneath shimmer-leaf whispers. Imbibe the petrichor. Allow a moment's peace to sink into your pores. It feels so good you imagine you must be photosynthesising. Watch the filtered light cast your skin forest green. Feel your rain-splattered heels crack and open. Feel your veins unfurl themselves and slither into the good earth. Maybe this is all you need.