The night was cold when two strangers crossed paths
in the park. Their warm breath fogged in the frigid air. They were both
bundled with scarves and gloves and hats. Their coats were closed to the top
button.
The park was a natural reprieve amid the bustling
city. Skyscrapers loomed above the treetops with yellow light emerging from the
windows. The smog and the city’s glow cast out the stars that should have shone
brilliantly in the sky.
He walked from the east and she from the west. He
shuffled his feet and kicked rocks on the gravel path while she marched ahead.
They met underneath a lamppost just as the bulb flickered brightly. They nearly
rubbed shoulders, almost collided on the path, but continued on. As they
passed, the bulb burned out with a pop of sparks.
If the man had looked up from his feet and if the
woman had slowed for only a split second, they would have seen the reflection
of two lost souls stumbling in the darkness. He would have seen the tears
running down her cheeks and she would have seen the worry in his eyes. He would
have noticed her disheveled scarf and she his trembling hands. Their gazes may
have met and he may have asked her name.
They might have gone to the diner at the corner of
the park where they would have had no trouble finding an empty booth at such a
late hour. The waitress would have needed to put on a fresh pot of coffee and
they would order a slice of pie. The diner would only have apple and that would
suffice. He would comfort her and ask her why the tears poured from her eyes.
Maybe she caught her boyfriend in bed with another woman, or maybe she had left
her keys on the crosstown bus, or maybe the week of stress had finally boiled
over into overcoming emotion. His voice would be soothing and his presence
would be calming. He might even reach across the table to lend her his scarlet
red handkerchief. It would be then that she would again notice the shake in his
hands. She’d ask him what the trouble was and he would reply that his mother
was very sick, or that his brother had been lost in the Middle East, or that a
job interview in the morning made it impossible to sleep. She would understand
and console his troubled mind. As they would rise to leave, he might ask her out
again, and she might say yes.
The date would come and the two would go to an art
museum. They might walk around the gallery for a while pretending to examine
the paintings when really they were stealing sideways glances of each other.
She might like his hair, dark and swept to the side. He could like her lips,
full and glistening. They would sit down to view an abstract work. She would
stare at the painting and he would finally give up the charade and look only at
her. Her long hair might be braided and hang to one side. She would turn her
head when she felt his gaze. Her eyes, blue and bright, would find his, brown
and beckoning. Maybe he would lean forward and so would she until finally their
lips would touch and they would feel a spark.
They could have continued to date through the
winter months and into the spring. Surely it would not always have been
perfect. She might not like his cluttered apartment and he might get upset when
she hassled him to clean. He could not like her cat that always lay on his jacket
and she would hate the way he talked to her four-legged companion. But through
it all, he would be smitten with her charm and she would be captivated by his
stories.
One day in the summer, when the grass would be
green and weather would be hot, he might take her back to the park on a picnic.
He would bring a basket full of breads and fruits and cheeses and wines and she
would bring a blanket her grandmother made from old denim jeans. They would sit
and enjoy their food and drink. They could watch the families with children on
the swings and young men throwing Frisbees to their dogs. And then she might
notice that they were near the same lamppost where they had met and she would
turn to tell him and he would have a black box open with a diamond ring. Of
course she would say yes through the tears of excitement.
The two might find a loft apartment in the city and
live for a few years in quiet coupledom until one day when he would come home
from work to find her giddy with excitement. She could be pregnant and he would
be happy. Maybe they would go to the doctor and discover they would have twins,
one boy and one girl. They could name them Andrew and Emily and the family
would need a bigger house. They might move to the suburbs where the kids would
grow up and go to school. Andrew could become a schoolteacher and Emily could
become a surgeon. The children would start families of their own and move to
distant corners of the country.
Then the man and the woman would be together again
with no one else in the home. They’d have no need to stay in their quiet
community, so they might retire and travel the world. They could visit far away
lands and experience new cultures and eat new foods and love one another into
their life’s twilight.
None of this would happen, though. He kept his head
down and she kept crying to herself. He kept shuffling and she kept marching.
They did not even notice the flash of the bulb and continued down the path in
darkness.
I watched it all unfold from a bench beneath a tree
in the park. “What a shame,” I said aloud. “They would have been lovely
together.”
--
©
Blaine Boyd
