They
were on the same bench, at the same park where they used to meet three times a
week; sitting side by side, without touching each other. He always avoided her
touch; although he longed for it more than anything else in this world. They
were staring at the grass (still wet from the morning rain); and between them,
dividing them, there was an immense and dismal silence. He was going through
the distress of finding the right words to say, to end it. She was troubled,
anticipating the forthcoming calamity. They were both overtaken by the long
shadows of the vanishing afternoon.
They
had met some time before at the supermarket where she worked. He paid for his no-name
groceries with his debit card. After she completed the transaction, distracted,
she did not return the card. He stood there, by the cash register, one long
minute, waiting for her to react.
“Is there anything else I can help you
with sir?” she asked.
“My card, you didn’t give it back to me,”
he answered.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, as she
handed the card back.
“Long day?” he queried her.
“Yes,” she replied with a sigh. “It’s been
a very busy day, here at work, and at home too. This morning, before leaving, I
did a lot of work; and there’s still a lot to do when I get back”.
He imagined that she was married, and
probably had a couple of children, and a husband who did not help. She had to
work outside the home, return to it at the end of the day, completely exhausted,
and had to continue to work there too. She had to do the house chores, look
after her children, tend to her husband, and possibly, open her legs for him,
if he had the urge. He reckoned she was wasting away, ensnared in a condition
that most likely was the lesser of several evils. He could not help feeling a
deep commiseration for that stranger with long black hair, gleaming dark eyes,
a dim cheerless aspect, and a gentle smile.
“It never ends. Does it?” he expressed,
trying to transmit some consolation.
“No, it doesn’t,” she sighed once more.
That night he was restless in his sleep,
thinking about her; about her situation. He did not see her again for several
weeks.
One day, returning from work, crossing the
park that lay between the bus stop and his apartment building, he noticed a
woman sitting on a bench, secluded from the open field, in a shady area
partially hidden by some trees. She looked familiar. He instantly felt an
impulse to walk towards her. As he got closer, he joyfully recognized her.
“Hi! Do you remember me?” he asked with a
smile on his face.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling too.
“I haven’t seen you at the supermarket
lately. Do you still work there?”
“Yes, I still do. But I work different shifts: days, evenings,
and weekends.”
And they continued to talk, about the
weather, and other trivialities. She was sitting on the bench; he was standing,
facing her.
During the night he was sleepless again,
thinking about her, remembering what had happened in the park and the words
they had shared.
The following day at work, a vast sorrow
infiltrated his emotions. He could not take her off his mind. Going about his
work, absent-mindedly, through the long day, he could only think about returning
home, and the possibility that she might be at the park again. When he got off
the bus, he raced across the park, and almost ran to the little corner where
the bench was located. Much to his disappointment, the bench was empty. It was
already late into the night, and again, he could not sleep. Feeling sad and
irritated, because she was not at the park, he could not stop thinking about
her.
The next day at work, again and again, he
was harassed by the unrelenting notion that perhaps he would never see her
again; that she was just a spirit who cruelly flashed her presence to him, and
then disappeared, leaving him in a turmoil of emotions, wants, wishes, and
desires that could never be satisfied. At the end of the day he was relieved;
boarded the bus, and took the ride back home; overwhelmed by a full array of
uneasy thoughts.
When he descended, he walked across the park
listlessly. His heart jumped with excitement when he glimpsed what seemed to be
a woman, sitting on the bench where he had seen her two days before. He dashed
towards the vague shape, which, on that day, would certainly bring him joy or
misery, as if his entire destiny depended on it. His happiness was boundless
when he identified her glowing dark eyes.
“Hi,” he said with a big smile all over
his face. “You were not here yesterday.”
“No,” she replied. “Yesterday I worked
evening shift. I work day shift only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Were
you expecting to see me?” she coyly probed him.
“Yes,” he admitted, somewhat
embarrassed. “May I sit down?” he
ventured timidly.
“Yes, of course,” she responded with a shy
smile, and a sincerity that reassured him.
And they talked, this time about more
intimate things, making confessions to each other. She confirmed the
predicament he had imagined she was in. From that day on, they established the
routine of spending one hour together three times a week, telling each other
pretty much everything that was going on in their lives, and thus, bringing
some comfort and exhilaration to their otherwise dreary existence. Three times
a week she would arrive home one hour later, three times a week she would lie
to her husband about how hectic the day was at work, and how she had to stay
one hour longer. They were not even secret lovers, only secret friends, but
they were already feeling guilty over their covert encounters.
Ever since they met, their lives gradually
changed. Her days were different then. When
she was feeling crushed by the tedious routine of her work, overwhelmed
by the monotonous burden of housekeeping, or oppressed by the alter ego she was
forced to adopt to satisfy her husband, she could escape to a pleasant and
undisturbed place in her mind, hide there, thinking about him, and feel better.
His days were different too. Tuesdays,
Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays he felt like a caged animal, edgy, restless,
hapless, despondent, angry, disoriented, lonely, lost, and powerless. He felt
all those emotions at the same time. Only the thought that he would see her in
a day or two would bring some respite to his suffering, and some peace to his
soul. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were long days at work. Anxious and
inattentive, he would constantly watch the clock, wishing for the day to rush
by.
And when they finally consummated their
burning desire to be together, they would sit next to each other, without
touching each other; each one feeling the presence and the closeness of the
other as tangibly as if they were naked, with their bodies and lips pressed
hard against one another. And time would stop, as though the silent indifferent
universe were actually stopping to watch them in amusement, unable to
understand the reasons for the absolutely harmonious bliss they were
experiencing.
Strangely, they never asked for each
other’s name. Were they afraid to get too close? Did they think that such
happiness couldn’t last long? Were they
trying to keep a safe distance, to remain somewhat detached, to make the break-up
easier? Did they really think that not knowing each other’s name would protect
them from such pain? Ironically, being together was precisely what made their
lives different. Because of her he felt unique, different from the millions of
anonymous entities that wake up every day, go to work, perform, like gears of an
impersonal and brutal machine, go back home to a lonely apartment to feed a
stray cat that sometimes doesn’t even show up, and go about their lives like
no-name products. They probably thought that, in any case, it is always easier
to say good-bye to a stranger.
Nevertheless, as time went by, despite
their fears, they became closer to each other, until the situation became
unbearable, at least for him. Bemoaning how some basic necessities of life,
like freedom or happiness, were so expensive, so difficult to achieve, he
decided that he could not take it anymore, and that they would have to, either
jump off the cliff, or break it up.
“We have to stop seeing each other”, he
finally blurted out, breaking the silence.
“No!” she screamed, overcoming the anxiety
that was stifling her. “You are all I’ve got”.
“That’s not true,” he sternly reproached
her. “You have your children. And you’d better find yourself a female friend to
talk to”.
“I don’t need a female friend,” she firmly
and angrily stated, as if it had been an incontestable fact of life. “I have
you. I don’t want anybody else, I want you.”
“Listen to me,” he said very upset. “You
are a very sweet woman, and I am a very lonely guy. It’s only a matter of time.
You will end up cheating on your husband, and you can’t foresee the aftermath.
Once it is done you will have to face the repercussions. You will be judged
very harshly; by the law; by society; by your relatives; by your children: they
might hate you; by your husband: he might try to take away your children. The
price you will have to pay is too high. I am not worth it,” he concluded
raising his voice, with his whole body trembling with the anguish that had
taken over him.
“Yes, you are!” she yelled, clenching her
teeth, with anger in her voice, and fury in her eyes. “And I don’t care about the consequences.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,”
he refuted her, feeling a despair that was intolerable. “If you lose your
children, your life will be shattered; and I will blame myself. I can’t live
with that burden on my shoulders and that guilt in my conscience. This is
good-bye.”
As he stood up to leave, she grabbed one
of his hands, and kissed it many times, while she cried brokenheartedly.
“Don’t go, please, don’t leave,” she
begged.
He forced his hand out of hers, and,
without even taking a look at that woman who was crying over him, and imploring
him to stay, he left, looking straight ahead. He continued to walk away without
looking back, with tears running down his face; with the painful awareness that
he was leaving behind what had become most precious for him. She watched, in
disbelief, his image (blurry through her tears) fade away; knowing that she was
losing what was most precious for her. She was wishing and hoping that he would
stop, and turn around. But he did not.
©
Text and photograph, William Almonte Jiménez, 2013
