She is certain that they can feel her stare raking across their person. Suddenly, the damp mulch beneath her feet captures her interest so as to not receive their reciprocated glares, their judgement, or their time. A dark worm breaches the surface of the mulch and crawls towards her sandal. What if someone were to come over and say something? But no one ever does. She gets pity, she never suffers consequences, that’s why she does it.
Looking back up through her eyelashes, a man walks by with a phone pressed against his ear. In his other hand, a briefcase sways back and forth in pendulum with his steps. The concrete makes a loud slapping noise each time his pointed foot hits the surface; the only thing louder is his voice directed into the telephone. She shifts backwards on the bench, her back straightening against the wooden slats and her legs crossing daintily at the ankles. The man glances up from his upset stare into the ground and spots her, taking in her notice of him. He shut his teeth in time with the slap of his feet and the sway of his briefcase. As he continues on, she sags back into the bench, molten and relaxed once again. Without the continuous echo of the briefcase man’s voice across the park, it is quiet.
She smiles slightly, her posture visibly different; this is the time of day she enjoys the most. She assumes that it is the same for the man sitting next to her, as he also tends to sit beside her and loom across the landscape with his high brow and clasped hands. The corners of her mouth twitch up again. He is very handsome, she thinks. Turning away from him and back to the park, she hears him emit a small sigh—one of relief? Perhaps sadness? Or is it the calm of the day? The air isn’t dry, but not humid either. To sit down and breathe in the still…
A young bicyclist rushes by, causing the bench boards to creak with her jump and some of her gray hair to sweep across her forehead. Her wide eyes travel with the girl on the bike, hands braced against her seat as she leans slightly forward. Of course she knows that the bicyclist can longer see her, but she furrows her brow and purses her lips in consternation. With a quick movement of her eyes, she sees shoulders moving slightly up and down on the man next to her. The laughter doesn’t even make it past his lips. His eyes crinkle and wet with fascination.
Where has she seen this before?
Her face warms in the sun as she turns to face forward, her hands wringing each other slightly. She never liked their judgement, the reactions, or the stares to her simple observing. Yes, she becomes surprised at times. That only happens when something disrupts her peace or her thoughts. She rarely sits and thinks, her head aches with the process; so she simply observes and reacts. Easy.
Now she turns back to the man seated next to her, who is once again staring at her. His gaze seems to only follow the stretch of her back, the creases of her skin, and her knobby hands that twitch of their own accord. She holds herself up a little straighter, her eyes tracing the direction in which he looks at her. He doesn’t jump or blunder when she speaks.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His lips curl slightly inward and his brow rises towards his scalp. For the first time since she’s looked at him, her breath stops as she starts to see him.
“Of course,” he curls his feet in as his knees turn in her direction. “The most beautiful dame in the world happens to be seated next to me.”
Again, her face warms in the sun, and she wonders if she should have worn a hat. Although she knows that it would have only made her blush more obvious—no excuse to be made on the sun. Her legs mirror his, her ankles crossed once again. She tries to still her hands in her lap, she wants to reach out and grasp his. She simply glances down at those hands to convey her flattery, the calluses not going unnoticed. Wedding ring. The side of her mouth picks up in a wry smile, ready to tease and flourish her expertise.
“You call me the most beautiful woman,” her eyes come back up to swim in his. “Yet we’ve never met, and you wear a ring.”
The man’s jaw tenses and his head quickly turns, the expanse of his throat bare for her to see. She doesn’t miss his swallow or his quick intake of breath, and she blinks away from the wetness forming in his eyes. She shifts backwards, aware that she’s made the man upset in some way. She assumes that his wife must have recently died, as his reaction towards her speaking leads her to believe there’s recognition. Perhaps she acts like his late wife. He turns back to her, all of his pleasantness returned and a wider smile plastered for a split second.
“So do you,” he retorts. She twitches her head down slightly to look at her hands. Indeed, there is a gold band on her left hand, a diamond seated proudly atop it. When she swings her head up, he still has the expression of a wounded man. It obviously took him some effort to say that. Perhaps he does know her?
“It’s not every day that I am complimented by a married man,” she says, careful of her words. She doesn’t want him to leave her there, harried by her thoughts. She can almost feel the headache breach her temples at the idea. Her hand reaches up to press into the side of her head on its own accord, and the man’s expression changes.
“Does your head hurt?”
“Not all of the time,” she responds quietly.
“But definitely sometimes.”
“Of course, whenever I think too hard.” Although, she’s been thinking—about him—for the past five minutes and hasn’t felt a thing. She tells him as such, preferring to be honest when something such as this occurs. He sags against the bench a little, his shoulder pressed against the wooden slats behind him as his arm snakes up to lay across the space between them. She realizes suddenly that she has been observing everything about him and nothing of the outside world. It’s as if her consciousness has been cut off from her usual distractions. She decides to fix this for a moment to regain herself by facing her body perpendicular with the bench again and placing her mind in the park amongst the people relaxing, chatting, and smiling. She releases a short sigh, once again at peace. Staring at strangers and noticing each step, breath, and word is what gives her tranquility.
Except for the man beside her.
When he acts, she tenses. She doesn’t know how he is, because he doesn’t give anything away. Something bothers him between his brows. An unknown pain catches in his throat. A lost love rests in his weathered hands. His mystery is her adventure, and she is desperate to explore. The world between them could be vast, she hopes.
“I feel like I’ve been sitting here for a lifetime,” she admits into the open air. “Watching the people pass is enough for me. But what do I know?” As if on cue, their heads swivel in to face each other. A spark emits between them, knowledge ready for the taking.
He tilts his head forward, mischievous and telling. His chest rises with the passing breeze and speaks first.
“Call me Steve.”
“Peggy.”