Park Bench
Sitting on a park bench in New York is like watching a jumbled symphony of indie movies, each with its own miniature odyssey and few with adequate funding. I always feel like I see at least ten guys I would like to fall in love with, as if every other jogger or boy with a book was my long lost soul mate with whom the universe has always conspired to connect me.
When he sat down next to me, he carefully took out a large drawing pad and charcoal pencil like a modern-day Jack Dawson. I liked the way he zipped his backpack ever so gently, so I could hear each tooth in the chain connect in perfect succession. He took a deep breath in, his chest raising slightly, and generously surveyed the world. I knew as soon as I saw him.
We split many of our first dates down the middle as a matter of principle, but soon find ourselves paying for each other and saying things like, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
The commute between our apartments is sizable, but we spend so many nights together that it’s easy to forget.
At 4:00pm on Halloween night he turns to me and says, “Do you want to just stay in?”
When the holidays roll around, we debate again about whose family we’re going to see. What if we just stay in the city? Or go on a trip? “No.”
While both of us are fallen Christians, we agree that spending Christmas in a tropical climate is sacrilege.
In the springtime we eat at a restaurant table on the sidewalk again, and agree that we only need to do this once a year.
We both breath a sweaty sigh of relief after installing the window air conditioning units in our apartment, popping cold Heinekens as I sit in his legs on the floor, arctic air blasting on our faces.
When the leaves turn burnt orange again, he takes me on a long walk in Central Park down the path where trees tower over us like a cathedral. Wearing his oversized canvas coat, he breaks away from me to go buy two cheap black coffees from the cart, tipping generously and handing mine over with the napkin placed neatly around the cup.
He leads me to the bench where we first met, and we sit there until we notice our shadows change. Slowly his arm around me fades, and I remember my imagination. Glancing to my side, I stare longingly at the chipped green paint.