A Bench
He sits down on the bench. It’s just like he remembers. His fingertips slide over the wooden planks. They are dark with dampness from the early morning showers, but not damp enough to leave a mark on his khakis. How long has it been since he last sat here? 3 years? 4 maybe? The bench is turned so that it overlooks the center of the park where, during the day, there is non-stop activity. There was always something to spectate. People walking their dogs, couples picnicking, kids playing tag. They would alternate between joining the activities of the park and sitting on the bench, watching the activities unfold. Sometimes, while they sat, they would get ideas for what to bring the next time they decided to picnic. She always thought too big and he always had to remind her that they can only carry so much to the park, especially when it is only him carrying things. She always found a way to get out of it. He chuckles thinking of that. He can’t blame her for never helping carry the food, after all, he was the gullible sucker that fell for her innocent gaze and sweet talking every time. He sighs softly thinking of that.
