The woman sits on the park bench. It could not have been very comfortable, yet there the woman sits, so still that you might have thought her a statue if it weren't for her occasional movements and the rising of her chest. The air holds the kind of chill only the autumnal air can hold, the trees having already lost their vibrant yellows and reds, exchanging them for a brown. A brown that perfectly matches the heavy coat the woman wears, protecting her from the worst of the cold.
A man showed up, and sat down next to her, neither acknowledging each other. This did not last long, and soon they had exchanged greetings and were agreeing to a dinner. Perhaps they felt drawn to each other, as heat to cold, as the lonely to a crowd, as the vulnerable to the malicious. Whatever the reason, they got along better than anyone could have ever thought.
The park bench in itself was nothing very fancy, save the charm of having one. Its rusted arm rests may have once been a thing of beauty, the rough wood once polished. The plaque may have once been a symbol of honor, ornate and gleaming, but now it is merely ignored by passerby, save for the curious child. In memoriam of George L.K. Hopkins, it reads, Director of Landscaping and Groundskeeping.
The two held hands over a candlelit dinner, their conversations weaving into dances of passion, and before they knew it, they were deeply, deeply in love.
The woman, however, does not seem to notice the importance of the bench where she sits, for she is still motionless. The birds twitter overhead, the trees sway, the distant babble of a creek nearly but not quite frozen. A particularly large gust of wind disturbs a pile of leaves, but not the woman.
Two lovers sat on a park bench, huddled together. The woman shivered, and the man gave her his heavy brown coat, waving off her protests with lies about how he isn't cold. She still took it, despite her suspicions of his untruthfulness, and donned it, relishing the warmth it provided.
Her eyes are glazed over as though she is in another world. People come and go, yet she does not appear to notice any of them.
He was on one knee. Only one word was said between them before they were consumed by a whirlwind of joy and happiness and fall in love with each other all over again.
Seemingly unconsciously, the woman rubs the gloved fingers on her left hand. Her breath catches, her eyes watering slightly.
One day, all of it ended.
She steels herself, her hands clenching and unclenching into fists, the redness from her eyes disappearing. She takes a deep, calming breath. The cold, refreshing air clears her mind.
The woman walked away, her head held high in spite of her deep embarrassment. The man jogged after her, begging her to understand that it wasn't what she thought. She snapped back, asking if something like that could be misunderstood. He switched tactics, saying that it was only one time, and please, please don't do this, and you'll regret this. At that, this woman laughed, though she truly wanted to cry, and stalked out the door into the crowded street. The man did not follow.
She finally stands up, hours, months, years having passed, and yet, all is the same, the birds tweeting, the trees swaying, the creeks babbling. The park is empty by now, all having gone to spend their evening with their families. The rocks of the path crunch underfoot as she walks home.
And on the park bench, draped over the back, is a heavy brown coat.
- fin -
