Late night

How many nights passed like this she couldn’t remember. She’s been sleeping most of the day and sitting by the window at night looking over to the park in front, the lights of the city ahead and the starts above if the clouds let them through.

About one in the morning the bar on the next street closed releasing people into the quiet night. Some would be happy drunks continuing the joke that made them laugh back in the bar – the joke they would not laugh at in the morning. Others would be angry with each other. There were many occasions she thought she ought to call the police to prevent a fight, if only she could be bothered. In the morning, most would be forgotten anyway.

After the crowd, a lone man would walk slowly past, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. As he passed under the street light, she could see his tired face. He was beautiful. Her heart was too tired to think about beauty and the possibilities it brings. But she still watched him as he walked past, turned the corner, entered the park and sat on the bench by the pond. He would light another cigarette, sit a little while after finishing that one and then leave.

She would sit all that time, in the darkened flat, by her window, smoke her cigarette and watch him, seeing in him all those who she loved, all those she wanted to be loved by and all those who remained distant and left.

When she resumed her place by the window earlier, she didn’t know tonight would be different. The crowds passed again. And he appeared around the corner. But this time he stopped under the light, looked up, waved at her, smiled and continued walking.

His smile, nothing special in itself, warmed her heart. It surprised her that her heart that was yet again broken, her heart that wanted to sleep all day and sit up all night in silence, her heart that was shrinking with every break was still capable of feeling warmth.

As in a trance, she got up, went downstairs, walked to the end of the road, into the park and sat next to him on the bench by the pond. He smiled again as if this is what they did here, this time of night, always, everywhere.

He got a cigarette out for her, she took it, he lit. They sat there in silence and darkness, looking at the pond. She had had the courage to get there but was afraid if she didn’t say or do something, he too would leave.

“Hi”?
“I’ve seen you sit here before?”?
“Nice night”?
Hold his hand?
At least turn towards him?

…something that showed him that she was a woman and him a man. But she was tired of being loved as a woman. She just wanted to be. So did he.

He just sat there, silent, motionless long after his cigarette had finished…her comfortable in his presence.

As the birds started to sing welcoming the first lights of day, he moved his hand and lights held her little finger. He knew that was as much contact as she could handle right now, and she felt love, human love, more in that one, quiet, little touch than any other.

With the sun, they left the park. She never saw him again, sleeping soundly at night in the knowledge that love existed and that that kind of moment was too precious to live again.