Strangers on a bench

"Something was comforting about strangers—it seemed like they would exist forever as the same, unknowable mass." ― Megan Boyle

He sat on a park bench with War and Peace and is engrossed in it. When it was getting dark, he closed the book and became aware of the world around him. At sixty, having read the book a million times now, he should have been less engrossed with it. And yet, he just could not. While still thinking about the book, he looked around, noticing for the first time that someone else sat alongside him, on the farther corner of the bench. He noticed that she was just sitting quietly, looking about the park, when she suddenly turned her head and offered a polite smile. She held his gaze for a minute, when he returned her smile, before nodding a good bye and going her way. It was a Thursday evening.

She made her way back to her home. Later that night, she settled on her bed, with a book in her hand. She suddenly remembered the stranger reading a book and was surprised at the memory. She hardly remembered people, let alone strangers. At sixty five, her only memories were of her dead husband, who brought blushes and smiles and tears, every time she thought of him, which is constantly. And so, she was surprised to be thinking of someone other than her husband, who was a recurring force in her life and who relished her until his last breath. She knew she was cherished, revered and loved, just as he knew that she adored him endlessly. Such was their relation that the fleeting glimpses of strangers were merely that - fleeting moments. She closed her book and looked at the photo next to her bed and fell asleep, with a smile on her face, not thinking of the stranger anymore.

A week went by and then another Thursday came. He was more prepared this time, to be on the look out for the bench companion, who wore her age really well. His wife passed away when she was forty and he spent the last fifteen years of his life, in the company of his books and her memories, fondly cherished. She made him promise her that he would move on, which he conveniently agreed to soothe her faltering heart, leaving the time as to when he would move on. Its a technicality, really. How could he move on, when his life was dedicated to her? A husk of a man he once was, he did not need to move on. He was content with his life and her memories. Until last Thursday, when he saw her smile that lingered in his memory for a week now.

While he consciously made an effort to keep on the lookout for her, he was lost in the book, once again, not looking about until the lights came on in the park. Then he closed his book and looked about and saw her sitting on the farther corner of the bench. She was relaxed, with a serenity that was so beautiful that he wanted to fill himself with it. She looked at him then, as though she felt his gaze, again with a smile on her face. He returned one. They held their gaze a minute before she got up and made her way. This time, he waited until he could no longer track her, before getting up and moving out.

She walked the length of the park towards the exit and kept thinking back to that face of the complete stranger. She walked all the way to her home and made herself dinner, still thinking about him. She surprised herself that she wanted company for dinner, just someone to share the food on the table. She felt the moisture in her eyes before putting the uneaten dinner in the fridge and lying on the couch, looking at the photo of her dead husband. She could never get away with skipped meals when he was around, at anytime of the day. He was very adamant about it. "I work really hard to put food on the table. It takes my time away from you. The least you could do is make an effort to cook and eat." or "You know what? I can quit the job, you can stop cooking and we both can just live our lives in each others arms until we are ravenous and end up eating each other." or "Serenity, you WILL eat the food at this moment, if you know what is good for you!" or "You are not a kid anymore, you do not need a reminder to eat food!" and finally, in his last days, "My love, I won't be here to remind you to eat, to live. I want you to take very good care of yourself, until we meet again, else, you will have me to answer to, on the other side." She sighed and got up and reheated the food and made an effort to eat the tasteless food, choking back on tears. He is dead, damn it. He is dead and there is not a thing she could do about it. She just has to live, until the clock strikes her final hour, which could be a second from now or a decade. "To live, my dear, when you are not hear by my side is like living in hell", she said, looking at his picture. With daughter and grand daughter living a day journey away, she is lonely. Some days, its easy being alone and most days, it is just watching the tick of the clock. So, its nice to have someone who waves and salutes and smiles, if only for one fleeting second. She thought back to the stranger who returned her smile.

Another Thursday, she walked slowly to the park bench. He was there, looking about. No book in hand. Just sitting, watching the happenings around. When she reached the bench, he stood up. She glanced at him with a friendly smile, wondering if he would leave. He waited until she sat to rewarm the bench. She smiled at the chivalry of the last century and slid a package up the bench. He took it and opened it to find a muffin in it. He took a bite with relish and cherished the warm raspberry filling inside it. He hogged the last crumb of it unabashedly, surprised that a slight moisture filled his eyes. This did not have the store bought smell he was accustomed to and he tasted the hand of a seasoned cook, who rolled the dough with more than just ingredients. He closed his eyes and savored the taste. He turned to say a thank you, when he noticed that she was nibbling a muffin too, and saved his thank you for until later. They sat in silence, each with a feeling of a tide turning. And when dusk descended, they each went about their way, without a word being spoken, but feeling a lot lighter in their hearts than they were used to.

Another Thursday, he made his way, balancing a tray of to-go coffee to the park bench. By his watch, he had three minutes until she arrived and sure enough, he saw her making her way to the bench. When she sat, he slid the coffee cup to her and she slid another bag to him. He opened with gusto to find a short bread cookie, the smell of ginger wafting through. He dug in, noticing that she took the coffee and together, they quietly shared a snack.

Another Thursday and another and so it went on. She brought food, he brought the drinks - coffee, iced tea, dessert wine. The hour on park bench, stretched to two and then to three, with no words exchanged between them. It was just the warmth of company, where two lonely old souls sat in quietness with conversations that were perhaps too difficult to put to words. And one Thursday, he walked alongside her to her house, pausing on the foot path, waiting for her to lock her door, before he walked back to his place.

They never went to each others house, they never invited each other, never spoke to each other, did not even know each others name, and yet, the days they needed comfort, they stayed a while longer on the park bench, in some unspoken agreement. It was like they both were from different planet, only accustomed to the polite rituals of strangers, yet dancing on the steps of boundaries, never crossing them.

Another Thursday came and he sat alone, with his coffee tray, waiting for her, counting the minutes. She did not come. She never missed. He waited for an hour and decided to walk to her place. When turning the corner, he stopped, dead on track, feeling the deep pain in his heart, knowing the look of a house having a funeral. He wanted to go in, share the moment with her family, yet he turned and walked back to the park bench. He sat there, for a long time, quiet tears rolling down his cheeks, an unsaid eulogy on his lips.

Another Thursday came. He walked to the bench, with a coffee tray and muffins. He kept her share on the farther corner of the bench and sat in silence in his corner, sipping his coffee and having his muffin, lost in his thoughts, not noticing when a girl sat beside him. She held his hand and jolted him out of his thoughts and almost gave him a heart attack, for she looked like a spitting image of HER, only twenty years younger. He blinked, wondering if his mind was playing games.

"Hello old man...", she said, with a smile.
"Hello young lady..", he responded, with a slight quiver in his voice.
"Here...",she said, giving him a letter.

To the stranger on the park bench, it read on the envelope. His heart thudded to high gear, when he kept his coffee cup aside and tore open the letter.

"I don't know you, yet it feels like I do know you. What can I say? I am old, though that is not an excuse for leaving you struggling for company in the last days. Until we meet on the other side, this is a goodbye. Do bring me coffee and I will try and save you a muffin, though I cannot promise you that. My husband loves muffins, you see! And this is where we sat whenever we came to the park, usually on Fridays. You see, I decided to break the pattern on a fateful Thursday, if only to do something for myself, without him holding my hand, invisible as he was. And what do I find? Another stranger, YOU, saddling the same boat as I am. The chance meeting that lasted a week of Thursdays, eased my ache of loneliness. I know it did yours too. And I hope there will be another stranger, who shares your coffee and gives you company, for as long as you need. I told my daughter of our little secret. She calls you creepy old man. I hope she did not call that to your face. I would like to think I imparted better wisdom than that! And I hope that she will give you this letter. Until we meet again, good bye. - Serenity"

He re-read the letter. Serenity, an apt name for her, he thought and looked around, to notice that the cup of coffee and the muffin were not there. Looks like the young lady took liberties that were not hers to take. He shook his head, the sadness that he was used to was creeping in as quietly as the dusk that settled around.

And come Thursday, he was back on the bench, with two cups of coffee and two short bread cookies, sharing a ritual with Serenity, if only in memory. And some days, he found her younger self, who sat quietly and shared his meal and left as quietly.

"They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other." - Victor Hugo