The Boy on the Bench, 2 Parts
Part 1
Soft curls strained to move with the wind, but the cap that squeezed his head kept them against the nape of his neck. Waiting, his eyes darted. Not along the welcoming page of his open book but to the strange people who walked by. The tap-tap-tap-taping of his foot offered chaos to the still people, but is of-pace to the hustle of the back-pack clad stranger’s half walking, half running to their next class because they stopped to talk to the die-hard Jesus fans. No words escaped his thin lips but a tight smile is presented to those he knows. He leaned forward, head tilted slightly down, just far enough, so he looks intrigued by the meaningless words. The eyes never stopped. Fingers shuffled clumsily through the pointless pages, almost nervously. A light, bright orange would glow off him, if anticipation was a color. It’d feel like when you run your fingers through the soft air at night during a car ride. But instead of refreshing it’d have a sense of weight and heaviness. The tapping transferred through his body to his fingers. He sat here, alone, on the same fading brown bench with the same useless book and the same cap that didn’t hide anything. He sat here every day waiting. Waiting for the one who wouldn’t show.
Part 2
I know I’m not being subtle enough. I can feel their stares, their confused looks. Eyeing everyone, I’m making sure their faces aren’t the same as the face I knew so well. Can I blame them for judging? There is no way they could remember us sitting on this bench, the one that has a rusting plaque that reads “Dedicated to Mary Welch, a loyal fan” placed there because a rich family decided to pay the University money to have their daughter’s name on a couple planks of wood. The metal words have burned into my skull after months sitting here, trying to forget. Although Mary’s name was screwed on to the decaying planks, the bench was ours. Imprints of where we sat aren’t visible but the vibrations of life still lingers. Or so it seems to me. I don’t know why I do this to myself every day. The back of my throat gets dry and it gets hard to swallow and I can feel the tears try to escape my eyes even when I only pass by this collection of wood and screws. Looking at the faces of strangers is better than trying to remember the good ol’ days, well it at least keeps me from breaking down in public. As much as I am torturing myself sitting where we used to sit, where we used to be happy, I can’t bring myself to leave. The past may burn but the future could hold hotter flames.