Strangers On A Bench

It's one of those cold crispy winter days that turns noses and cheeks red and leaves snowflakes in your hair. It's the kind that keeps most people hidden under blankets and their stomachs filled with hot chocolate.

There's a young woman sitting on a bench in the park. She's one of those people who doesn't care what the weather is like. She goes to the park each Sunday to sit on that particular bench and to write in her notebook. Her hair is tugged under a beanie and the amount of snowflakes on top of it indicates that she's been there for quite a while. The air is fresh, the sky is clear and the flakes stopped falling a while ago, but none of that matters to this woman.

She's focused on the task of writing stories of the past, of memories she's afraid to lose, of moments in time she keeps locked up in the corners of her mind, of her heart. They're stories of a time where she didn't in her wildest imagination would think losing a sense would ever happen to her. She once heard someone say, that losing one sense would strengthen the others. It's the kind of statement you don't put any thought into until it suddenly applies to yourself.

She doesn't speak. Not anymore. Even if it's not a sense, it still feels like losing one. She hasn't spoken a single word for eight years. Eight years, two months and five days. If she were to try, she's not sure she would remember how to. It doesn't matter anyway, just thinking of speaking even a single word forms a knot in her throat. Sometime during the past eight years she learned to ignore it, relying on her body language to get through the day.

Her head snaps slightly to the side by the sound of light feet approaching her; crispy crunches of snow under shoes. She doesn't look up, just listens.

"Is there room for one more on this bench?" The timid voice of a young woman asks. The woman on the bench nods softly, but doesn't look up and her pen doesn't leave the surface of the notebook, not even when the weight of another body hits the bench.

To anyone walking by it would look like two young women enjoying a cold winter day in the park together. No one but the two knows that they're strangers to each other. No one but the two understands the importance in the silence of the encounter.

The newcomer pulls out a sketchbook from her backpack. She finds the next empty page and starts drawing the scene of children making snowmen and parents proudly watching. She draws delicate snowflakes twirling in the air and naked trees, branches hanging low. She draws a bench with two women overlooking the scene. Their faces aren't showing, she wouldn't know how to draw them.

The silent woman flips a page. Stories of the past are exchanged by a focused crease between her eyebrows and the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. It's barely there and she doesn't recognize it as a smile herself. She touches her pen to the empty page and begins a tale of two women on a bench in a park. A tale of silent conversations and time standing still. A tale of winter worlds and cold hearts and red noses and... hope. She doesn't recognize it herself but it's there in the snowflakes and the twosome between the two strangers on the bench. It's there in the story of the present.

The dark of evening slowly settles around them, both are freezing, both still stubbornly moving their pen. In the distance, the town hall bell chimes 6 o'clock and the first woman slides her notebook into the coat pocket and slowly rises.

"Thank you," the newcomer says, timidly but firm.

The silent woman nods slightly, hoping her 'You're welcome' and 'Thank YOU' comes through loud and clear. She hopes it's the right amount of comfort to the silent tears she heard in the newcomer's voice.

She leaves the bench with her head tucked into her coat and her notebook filled with more memories and her heart unsteadily beating a rhythm of uncertainty. Because this feeling of the present lingering in her mind hasn't happened for a long time. It makes her uncomfortable. It stays with her through sleepless nights.

*

The sound of footsteps echo in the stairwell. Running footsteps, two steps at a time and Lexa taps her notebook with her index finger to the rhythm. One two three four - pause - one two three four - pause - one two three four... and so on. Their apartment is on the third floor and Anya says she can't be bothered walking like a normal person and 'its easier this way, less steps' and Lexa always rolls her eyes at her and Anya always punches her shoulder, a wide playful smirk on her face.

Dangling keys. Keys in the door. The door opens. Anya steps in kicking her shoes off while closing the door behind her.

"Hey sis. You home? What are you up to?"

Lexa waits for Anya's face to appear in the doorway before she lifts the notebook above her head for Anya to see.

"Ahh. Want some tea?"

Lexa nods, returning her focus to the notebook.

"Okay, coming right up!"

While Anya roams the kitchen, making tea and maybe sandwiches, Lexa rereads the words she just wrote.

Dear Costia.
Today, for the first time in eight years I felt something else than pain. I spent the afternoon with a stranger in the park. We enjoyed the winter landscape from a bench. We didn't talk. I don't know her name. I don't really know how she looks like, I couldn't bring myself to look at her, you know why. She draws. She drew the scene in the park, you know the place, it's our bench.
She drew while I wrote. For the first time in eight years I didn't write down memories. I wrote a short story. It's not a literary master piece. I'm not a writer. But today I wrote a short story about two women sitting on a bench sharing a moment of silence.
I've been thinking... How can the mere presence of a random stranger get under my skin like that? I don't have an answer. All I have are pages and pages of written words, random thoughts and bundles of nothingness on paper.
I'm curious to know if she sees the world like I do. Does her drawing capture the emptiness of her surroundings like my writing does mine? Is her drawing a result of pain and loss too? Or is she driven by a different kind of broken? Is she broken at all? I think she is.
I think she was crying. I don't remember the last time I cried.
I think, for a moment, I didn't feel pain. I'm not sure. I felt determined for a while, writing from inspiration. It's new. It's unsettling, because I don't know what it means.

Anya places a cup of tea and an egg sandwich on the coffee table and gestures for Lexa to 'dig in' and then takes a seat next to her on the couch. She pokes Lexa on the shoulder with her index finger, demanding her attention. Lexa gives it to her, putting her notebook away.

"I really want you to meet Raven. Come with me on Friday. Please?"

Anya and Raven has been dating for a few months now. They met at a conference of some sort. Anya is a cyber crime investigator and Raven is a technical mechanic. Lexa doesn't quite understand how they met at a conference, how their line of work intersect, but they did and it's kind of serious between them already and Lexa is truly happy for her. Anya deserves to be happy. Anya deserves to not be stuck in Lexa's cloud of destructive I-don't-care-about-anything-anymore behavior.

Lexa shakes her head frantically. Her eyes seek the upright piano by the window in a desperate attempt of anchoring herself to something, but it doesn't work. It hasn't for eight years.

"Lexa, she's important to me and I really want you two to meet. Please at least consider it? It's a few people at Raven's place, dinner and maybe some boardgames. They're really nice people. Look, if it makes you change your mind I promise to drive you back home the minute you feel uncomfortable, okay? Just think about."

Anya is the only thing important to Lexa. She's been Lexa's only rock to hang on to since Costia died. Well, Anya and Lexa's notebook. Mostly Anya. Lexa wants to do this for her, so badly, but the thought of being in a room with people expecting that she talks to them is almost driving her to a panic attack right there on the couch in front of Anya.

Anya's pleading eyes never leave Lexa as Lexa picks up her notebook and scribbles a note for her.

I'll think about it.

Anya's pleading eyes turns soft, she bites her lower lip and punches Lexa lightly on the shoulder.

"That's all I'm asking. Thank you."

Lexa scribbles another note.

What if they expect me to talk?

"You can bring your notebook, Lexa. I don't expect you to converse differently. They don't care, I told you, they're good people."

Lexa nods, not liking this one bit, but she promised Anya to think about it. She turns her attention to the tea and the sandwich in front of her, sends a 'thank you' smile towards Anya who smiles back before she turns on the TV.

*

The next morning Lexa visits Costia's grave to give her a letter. She watches it burn to ashes on her grave. She looks to the skies and takes a deep shaky breath, then she places a single daffodil on top of the ashes before she goes back home.

Dear Costia,
Anya wants me to meet Raven and her friends on Friday. I don't think I can handle this without you. Please help me do this for her.
I miss you, Lexa.

*

Clarke steps into her apartment and is met by lights from the living room which means Raven is home. Clarke sighs, kicks off her shoes and takes off her coat. She knows Raven is worried and she's not sure she can deal with that right now, so she walks silently towards her bedroom but Raven won't have it.

"I forgot what today was, Clarke, I'm sorry. If you want to be alone, I'll respect that, but I've got Netflix, popcorn and maybe a couple of beers and a friendly hug if you want?"

Clarke stops in the dark hallway, her bedroom door only an arm's length away. She thinks about visiting Finn's grave today, she lost him three years ago, today is the anniversary, and it still hurts so much that sometimes she can't breathe. She thinks about going to the park because she was afraid of being alone, and she thinks about the young woman on the bench and grieving silently in her company. She thinks about drawing for the first time in three years and she thinks about Raven being a better friend than she deserves. Clarke turns around to join Raven in front of the TV. She cuddles into Raven and exhales slowly.

"Thank you, Rae, this is exactly what I needed."

"I know." Raven hugs Clarke a little closer, her focus on the TV. "I put on Friends, figured you can't go wrong with that..."

"True." Clarke squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and releases a heavy breath.

"I went to see Finn today."

"I know", Raven's voice colored by a sad smile.

"I went to the park afterwards."

Raven responds with a squeeze to Clarke's shoulder. Clarke seems in the mood to want to talk and Raven knows better than to interrupt her, so she waits silently for Clarke to continue.

"I didn't want to be alone and there are always people at the park. I spent hours there, Rae, just observing people... I haven't done that in a long time."

Clarke hasn't said anything for a while, so Raven offers her some popcorn and does what Raven does best, making smart-ass comments to make Clarke smile. "Here, have some popcorn, my ears are bleeding from all that talking, " her voice thick with playful sarcasm.

Clarke punches Raven on her upper arm and chuckles when Raven feints hurt, then grabs a handful of popcorn.

"I want to show you something, I'll be right back."

Clarke dissappears into the hallway and comes back throwing her sketchbook at Raven.

"What's this?"

"Open it, you'll know when you see it. " Her voice detached from emotion.

Raven turns page after page of old drawings she's seen before, of Clarke's friends and family, of beautiful landscapes and of abstract patterns, all of them full of life and so very Clarke. They're all from before Finn died. Raven knows that Clarke uses her drawing to deal with her feelings. Raven also knows that Clarke hasn't drawn anything since Finn died. Raven nearly chokes on her popcorn when she finds the new drawing from the park.

"Shit, Clarke, you did a new drawing?"

"Mhmm."

"Today?"

"Mhmm."

"I... This is good, Clarke."

"I'm rusty."

"Pfft, oh shush with the modesty, you know it's good. No, I mean,... I'm proud of you, Clarke. Whatever made you draw this,... this is a good thing."

"Yeah... I'm scared, Rae."

"What are you scared of?"

"I don't know."

Raven chuckles. Clarke does too.

"Who's the chick?"

"What?"

Raven points to the bench on the drawing. "I assume this is you, soooo... who's this sitting next to you?"

Clarke scrunches her eyebrows thoughtfully. "Oh... I don't know her. She was sitting on that bench writing in a notebook and she let me sit next to her... maybe her writing inspired me to draw? I don't know... "

"Ooooh-kaaay... Maybe you should've gotten her number if she inspires you like that", Raven says with a glint in her eyes, hoping Clarke understands that she's *not* serious at all, only joking a little.

"Harhar!" Clarke chuckles but turns instantly serious, "No,... its not like that at all. It's just... I didn't want to be alone and she seemed like the silent, not talkative type, you know? It made sense, somehow. I think, maybe she was sad too. It felt like we were stuck together in our own bubble just watching life happen around us. It felt good in a pathetic kind of way having someone to share that with."

"Yeah, I get it Clarke, really, you don't have to explain yourself, I'm just super excited that you've been drawing again." Raven says and stuffs her mouth with another handful of popcorn. Clarke nods thoughtfully, distractedly.

Raven's phone dings on the coffee table and she picks it up, smiling like an idiot.

"Anya?"

"... yeah," Raven is distracted texting Anya back. "Anya's sister might be joining us on Friday. You okay with that?".

"Sure. Who else is coming?"

"Just O and Linc... I promised Anya to keep it low key. Her sister doesn't do well with big crowds."

"Mh okay... Well, that makes two of us, I guess."

Raven pulls Clarke into a bear hug and leaves a kiss on the top of her head. "Do you need a spoon buddy tonight?"

"Maybe."

"Okay,... Let's finish this movie first, okay?"

"Okay."