They were sitting together on the same bench in the park where they met three times a week, side by side, without touching each other. He always avoided her touch, despite longing for it more than anything else. Their eyes were fixed on the grass, still damp from the morning rain, while an immense and dismal silence hung between them, dividing them. He was struggling to find the right words to say to bring their relationship to an end. She felt uneasy, anticipating the forthcoming calamity. As the afternoon faded, they were both overtaken by its long shadows.
They had met some time before, at the supermarket where she worked. He used his debit card to pay for his no-name groceries. Once she completed the transaction, she became distracted and forgot to hand back the card. He stood by the cash register for a long minute, waiting for her to notice.
“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 returned the card.
“Long day?” he queried her.
“Yes,” she sighed in response. “It’s been quite a hectic day, both at work and at home. This morning, before leaving, I managed to get a lot done, but there’s still so much waiting for me when I return.”
“It never stops. Does it?” he expressed, trying to offer some comfort.
“No, it doesn’t,” she sighed once more.
That night he was restless in his sleep, thinking about her and her circumstances. He imagined her married, likely with a couple of kids and a husband who didn’t help around the house. She had to work, only to come back at the end of the day, completely exhausted, and then continue working at home. She was undoubtedly responsible for the household chores, caring for her children, attending to her husband, and possibly, being intimate with him whenever he desired. He reckoned she was drifting away, trapped in a situation that was most likely the best of several bad options. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for that stranger with long black hair, bright dark eyes, a cheerless aspect, and a gentle smile.
He didn’t encounter her again for a few weeks. One late afternoon, while coming home from work and crossing the park situated between the bus stop and his apartment, he spotted a woman sitting on a bench, tucked away in a shady spot partly concealed by some trees. She seemed familiar. He felt a sudden urge to approach her. As he drew nearer, he joyfully recognized her.
“Hey! Do you remember me?” He asked with a smile on his face.
“Of course,” she replied, returning his smile.
“I haven’t seen you at the supermarket recently. Are you still working there?”
“Yes, I am. I just have different shifts now: days, evenings, and weekends.”
They continued their conversation, chatting about the weather and other small talk. She was seated on the bench while he stood in front of her.
During the night he was unable to sleep, consumed by thoughts of her. He remembered what had happened in the park and the words they had shared.
The following day at work, a deep sense of sadness permeated his emotions. He couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. As he went through the long day, completing his tasks, he was lost in thought, fixated on the idea of going home and the possibility that she might be at the park once more. When he got off the bus, he hurried through the park, nearly racing to the little corner spot where the bench was located. To his dismay, the bench was empty. At night, he struggled to sleep again. Feeling both sad and annoyed that she wasn’t there, he couldn’t shake her off his mind.
The next day at the office he was haunted by the notion that he might never see her again. It felt as if she were merely a fleeting spirit who briefly flashed her presence to him and then disappeared, leaving him in a whirlwind of feelings, longings, and desires that would remain unfulfilled. By the end of the day he felt relieved as he boarded the bus and journeyed back home, though he was still burdened by a myriad of unsettling thoughts.
Upon descending from the bus, he strolled through the park aimlessly. His heart jumped with excitement as he glimpsed what seemed to be a woman sitting on the bench where he had seen her two days before. He dashed toward the indistinct figure, feeling as though his entire fate hinged on this moment, which would certainly bring him either joy or despair. His elation was boundless when he identified her dark eyes.
“Hi,” he greeted, his face lit up with a broad smile. “You weren’t here yesterday.”
“No,” she replied. “I worked the evening shift yesterday. I only work the day shift on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. After my shift ends, I like to come to this park, sit on this bench, and reflect on my life before heading home. Were you expecting to see me?” She coyly probed him.
“Yes,” he admitted, somewhat embarrassed. “Is it okay if I sit down?” he ventured timidly.
“Yes, of course,” she replied with a gentle smile that put him at ease.
They engaged in deeper conversation this time, sharing more personal matters and making confessions to each other. She acknowledged the difficult situation he had suspected she was in. From that day on, they established the routine of spending one hour together three times a week, telling each other almost everything that was happening 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, telling him that her day had been so busy at work that she needed to stay late. Though they weren’t actually secret lovers, only secret friends, they both began to feel guilty about their covert meetings.
Since the moment they met, their lives gradually changed. Her days were different then. Whenever she felt crushed by the tedious routine of her work, swamped by constant demands of housework, or oppressed by the alter ego she was forced to adopt to satisfy her husband, she could escape to a pleasant and undisturbed place within her mind. Hiding there, she would think about him and find solace.
His days were different too. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, he felt edgy, restless, hapless, despondent, disoriented, lonely, lost, and powerless. He experienced all these feelings simultaneously. Only the anticipation of seeing her within a day or two would bring some respite to his suffering. 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.
When they finally fulfilled their intense desire to be together, they would sit side by side, careful not to make contact; yet each felt the other’s presence and closeness as vividly as if they were naked, their bodies and lips pressed tightly against one another. In those moments, time seemed to stand still, as though the indifferent universe around them paused to observe, curious, unable to understand the reasons for the absolutely harmonious bliss they were experiencing.
Strangely, they never bothered to ask each other’s names. Were they afraid of getting too close? Did they believe that their happiness wouldn’t last? Were they trying to keep a safe distance, to remain somewhat detached to make any potential breakup easier? Did they think that not knowing each other’s names would shield them from pain? They probably reasoned that, after all, it’s always easier to part ways with a stranger. Ironically, it was their time together that truly changed their lives. Thanks to her, he felt unique; different from the countless anonymous entities who rise each morning, go to work, perform their tasks like gears of an impersonal and brutal machine, only to return to a solitary apartment to feed a stray cat that doesn’t always show up, and carry on with their lives like no-name products.
However, as time passed and despite their apprehensions, they grew closer together until the circumstances became intolerable, particularly for him. Bemoaning how some basic necessities of life, such as freedom and happiness, were so expensive and difficult to achieve, he concluded that he could no longer endure the situation. Eventually he reached a breaking point; realizing that they had to either take a leap into the unknown or end their friendship.
“We can’t keep meeting like this,” he finally blurted out, shattering the silence.
“No!” she screamed, overcoming the anxiety that was stifling her. “You’re all I have.”
“That’s not true,” he sternly reproached her. “You have your children. You’d better find yourself a female friend to confide in.”
“I don’t need a female friend,” she insisted, her tone firm and filled with anger. “I have you. I don’t want anyone else; I want you.”
“Listen to me,” he said, visibly distressed. “You’re a wonderful woman, and I’m just a lonely guy. It’s only a matter of time before you will be unfaithful to your husband; and you can’t predict what will follow. Once it happens, you will have to confront what comes next. You will be judged harshly—by the law, by society, by your relatives, and even by your children, who might resent you. Your husband might fight for custody of your kids. The price you will have to pay is too high. I am not worth it,” he concluded, raising his voice, his whole body shaking with the anguish that had taken over him.
“Yes, you are!” She shouted, clenching her teeth, with anger in her voice and rage burning in her eyes. “And I don’t care about the consequences.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he countered, overwhelmed by an unbearable despair. “If you lose your children, your whole life will fall apart, and I will hold myself responsible. I can’t carry that guilt in my conscience. This is goodbye.”
As he stood up to leave, she grabbed one of his hands and kissed it many times, weeping uncontrollably.
“Don’t go, please, don’t leave me,” she pleaded.
He pulled his hand free from hers, and without even glancing at that woman who was crying for him and imploring him to stay, he left, looking straight ahead. He continued to walk away without looking back, tears streaming down his face, fully aware that he was abandoning what had come to mean the most to him. She stood there, unable to believe it, watching his figure (blurred by her tears) gradually disappear, knowing she was losing what was dearest to her. She was wishing and hoping that he would stop and turn around. But he did not.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2011
