A small, tasteful--well, tasteless, really, but tasteless in a tasteful way--granite gravestone at the head of a square patch of astroturf just large enough for a person to stand on. A fake tea light in a plastic wind protector flickers next to a fading bouquet of plastic flowers.

As I step on the green, the scale measures my weight, and lights up behind what turns out to be a very thin sliver of granite, creating the illusion of a chiseled number:

2 0 0 . 6

I sigh and bow my head in remembrance of better days. Salad it is, again.
-- ping, May 01 2016

random, halfbakery