Sunday

8

I read somewhere that the vibrancy of a sunset can determine the clarity of the next day. Almost always, I've found this to be true; save for today. It's dreary, in a velvety grey sort of hue. There's barely enough contrast out today to read; the world, in both its color scheme and its overall ambiance, is rather flat. Perhaps it's exhausted from the beauty of the night before.

And oh, the night before. I grin warmly to myself. The feeling still resonates, reverberating throughout my bones like an echo-an echo tinted with indigo and golden flecks, like freckles dressing my memory.

Today, I sit at the park bench where we first met. There's a book in my hands and I read it intently while I wait. It's fascinating, really. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for.

"Hello, beautiful." I hear a voice from behind the bench. I turn around. It's Emery. "How are you?"

I grin at him as he takes a seat next to me. "I'm great,"

"Did you have fun last night?"

I nod. "It was the best time of my life,"

My hand drops to my side, resting on the bench. Perhaps it's seeking his.

I hear his soft smile as he talks. "Good, good."

After a moment, I feel his hand fall to mine. It's warm, and I don't notice the chill of the air until he makes contact with me. The world is quiet. Moisture in the air frosts the open pages of my book, but I don't close it. I don't mind.

"Hey, Emery?" I say.

I wait for a moment but he doesn't respond.

"Emery?" I repeat.

I look to my side. He's no longer next to me, but the warmth on my hand still remains.

A light raindrop wets a spot on my open book. Time to go home, I suppose.

I finish reading the sentence I'd been on. Closing the book, I run my fingers over the cover, over the title.

Discovering the Mind: Psychology Behind Imaginary Friends and Loneliness in Adults

Sigh. Yes, I decide as I stand from the bench and begin to walk, I'm lonely.

If it weren't for the threat of impending rain, I may have stopped walking by now. My other excuse is that nothing's given me a reason to stop. Nothing to cut my wandering short; nothing compelling me to sit and recount the past few days, reliving them with all my might. This is a certain wandering that I find myself doing often. When I leave the house, I may have a destination in mind; I may not. Sometimes I set out to find a specific place to calm the mind that rushes like a river. Sometimes I seek a park bench to sit and reconcile with my pad and pen. Sometimes I go to see if those seasonal spring trees have dropped any new halos of rose-jade petals.

And sometimes, I just walk.