Length of a Year

I used to see a couple walking outside my apartnent.

   They held hands and laughed together, always smiling. He held her hands and danced, jumping along the sidewalk and picking blossoms off of the cherry trees as she blushed and laughed. She would kiss him and smile, but never seemed as if she were really having a nice time.

   I watched them, from tentative almost - strangers walking side by side, to a startled, new couple. They were always tigetger, just the two of them. A year went by, every night completed by the couple walking along the other side of the street.

   In the winter, he would walk in short sleeves through the snow while she draped his coat across her thin shoulders,  she would let snowflakes whiten her charcoal hair to let him warm his ears under her hat.

   Spring came with short sleeves, with often offerings of blossoms and flowers to each other. When he sneezed into a daffodil, she would laugh and tuck it in the lapel of his shirt.

   Summer brought held hands and new tans, brought water bottles and bouts of dancing threw the trees.

  Fall brought hoodies, brought him holding her close as she spoke to him. I like to think she spoke quietly, sharing secrets and treasures. Sometimes, she started shaking and he would give her something that she'd drink down with water, and they'd turn around quickly, hurrying home. 

  Fall also brought the day when she shook so badly, and I could see him asking pedestrians for something, anything to calm her down.

   The leaves were on fire, much like her nerves, and I could not hear a thing.

    She collapsed, and he ran towards her, begging those around him. When I called,  from my apartment window,  an ambulance,  he was crying so hard, shaking so badly, shaking like her.

  I never saw her again.

    That winter, I heard a knock on the door.

   A man stood there, one I'd seen only from distances. He gave me a flower, and thanked me for the call.

   "She would talk about that girl in the window that watched us with that sad smile. she wanted me to bring you every flower I gave to her, so you wouldn't feel so lonely. You're the one who called. Thank you. No one else did, no one had any anxiety medicine."

   He thanked me for the call, a call that came too late,  and left.

   I never saw them again.