I sat on the bench that I’ve always sat since I discovered this place. I sat, smiling, enjoying the memories that I had on this bench. I met my husband for the first time on this bench. I had come to this place in desperation to escape my parents and their family, and there, a handsome man was relaxing on the bench. I’d come up to him, introduced myself, asked him what’s up. He replied, “Escaping my family, that’s all.”
I’d replied, “Me too. Families sometimes are crazy.”
My palms were sweaty. My heart beat twice its speed. I was anxious.
We had met often on this bench; both unintentionally and intentionally. Mostly it was intentionally. It was not so long after that we started dating. It was on the bench that we kissed for the first time. Few years later, he proposed to me on that bench. I had announced that I was pregnant with our first baby on this bench. The kids that we had together played around this bench while we lounged and chatted. When the kids were old enough to date, they’d brought their girlfriends or boyfriends to this park and made out on this bench. This bench was our special place. Now I brought my grandchildren to this bench, explained the story to them, and let them play around the bench.
I relaxed, my spine painfully stretched. I looked over and saw a drunken man staggering around, and that triggered a memory.
It happened a long time ago; I think that it must be forty years ago, when my husband and I were still dating. We had just had a fight and I came to the bench to cool down before facing him again.
I had sat and relaxed, blanking my mind. I felt and heard someone come and sit next to me.
“Richard,” I said tiredly, “I thought I told you to leave me alone for a while.”
“Sammie,” the guy said.
I looked at the guy, and saw that he was not Richard. Sammie wasn’t my name, my name was Bonnira, but everyone called me Bonnie. Not Sammie.
I smelled alcohol on his breath. Shit, I thought, he’s drunk.
So I did the thing that most people would do: I froze and hoped that he would stagger away and leave me alone.
“I’m breaking up with you,” he said. He looked like a jock: handsome with muscles and a letter jacket.
“What?” I replied, confused. Everything was so bizarre that everything didn’t make sense.
“Sammie, I’m breaking up with you. The truth is, I can’t stand my guilt. Yes, I do love you, but I love someone else more than I love you. Shh, don’t cry, honey,” he shushed me, placing his index finger on my lips.
The fact that I wasn’t even crying made me realize how drunk—and high—he must be. So, I tried to be the best civilian that I am, and tried to help him.
“How many bottles did you have?” I asked him.
“Several shots and bottles,” he replied.
“And how many hits?”
“I don’t know,” he slurred. “Some.”
I sighed. That made sense.
“But you can’t think that I broke up with you under influence,” he slurred and I nearly couldn’t understand him. “Beer and the weed helped me think better and it made me realize: Am I happy with you? No, and to make myself happy, I had to break up with you. Come to think of it, I’ve always wanted to break up with you.”
I opened my mouth to say that I had to leave, but he interrupted.
“I know, honey, and don’t say that. I know that I was there for you when your brother died, but it was because I felt guilty.
“I felt guilty because,” he paused before continuing, but he choked up with unshed tears and all.
I felt that it was too private information to know, and I got up, ready to leave, but he grabbed my hand.
“The truth is I killed your brother! I beat him to—” he suddenly slumped over and vomited. He passed out on his vomit.
I left after giving an anonymous tip about a man who is passed out in the park.
Out of the memories, I stared at the drunken man. I got up hurriedly and herded my grandchildren. I cared for them, and I didn’t want them to be hurt.
When I turned to look at the drunken man, he was talking to a girl who looked obviously confused and little startled. She got up; ready to leave, but he stopped her.
He said, “Irelene, I’m breaking up with you.”
