The Bench Read online



  The Bench

  By

  Kevin Farran

  * * * * *

  Copyright 2010 Kevin Farran

  Discover other titles by Kevin Farran at

  or follow blog at https://www.upwardgravity.wordpress.com

  ISBN : 978-0-9867765-3-3

  Cover image and cover licensing provided through Dreamstime.com Contributing artist: Dimitar Petarchev

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  * * * * *

  For Babe and Blue

  Your antics, good times and naughty times are with us always

  * * * * *

  The Bench

  Chapter 1

  She patted the Quarto Text by the door as she turned to leave. Her hand lingered over the massive six-inch thick volume, an original spelling edition. The special edition, complete works of Shakespeare had been given to her by her grandmother, along with an empty weathered old notebook cover. The crotchety old woman had slipped a new note pad in it and said, ‘When you love like the Bard then you can write your own words, but first you must learn to love.’ There was the problem - to try to love with the power of the Bard - or in her case, any power at all. In fact, for the past nineteen years any inkling of love would be an overdue thaw to a frosty life, not that she didn’t want it - it just didn’t happen. The first ten years were definitely taken by her first dog, a ‘Westie’, White West Highland Terrier, with a huge attitude. After the little whip had passed on, two decades of vapid valentines were usurped by books and brains, certainly not a world of brawn and beauty. ‘Love’ - you read about it. It was as real to her as Whooville and the Grinch. She reached for the door handle and wondered if there was another Grinch who stole hearts? The hell with stealing Christmas she thought, go for the heart. The door clicked shut and she turned down the beige and green hall. It was lined with a turquoise dado railing, which for interiors was a color that matched nothing, at least nothing in her building. She had never wanted to leave the old brown stone as it was so close to her work, only twenty minutes by bicycle, plus the neighborhood was very friendly. People said ‘hello’ to her at least. Sometimes at work she could go a whole day and not manage to speak to anyone - not the security guard, another reader, a coworker, even the receptionist would find some way of not speaking to her. She wasn’t that much of a talkative type anyway, that aspect had died off in musty libraries after High School.

  She pulled her bicycle from the stand. The handlebar caught on the next bike. It always happened and she invariably had to wrestle with the whole row of bikes to get hers out. The door opened behind her and one of the guys from the second floor, two floors below her, came out. He was okay looking and had a good physique. She continued to struggle with the handlebar. He glanced across and lifted his mountain bike deftly from the stand and whipped it around. He left. So much for chivalry - the jerk.

  After a few more tugs the brake lever of the next bike, which was stuck on her front mounted whicker basket, flicked clear and she was able to pull her bike free. She breathed deeply to let the frustration go. It was a Monday, things like this always happened on a Monday. Sometimes, every day was Monday.

  She pulled out and headed down the street. It was a glorious morning. The Sunday evening rain had dropped the temperature and as the streets heated up, the trees and bushes released their fragrance, it was spring. She thought of the tune ‘Love is in the air, dada da da’, whatever. There was no spring love in her air, it was still in a winter deep freeze, but either way, it was a gorgeous morning. As she cycled her full-length dress wrapped around her slender legs and the daffodil yellow cardigan she wore clung to her body. She had a tight waist and attractive figure. The cardigan matched the tiny yellow roses on her dusty blue dress. She often wore it on a Monday. It was her Monday dress.

  She pulled up to a stop light, there were two girls in front of her. She often saw them on her way to work. They probably worked in the city center too. They both wore helmets and tight hugging Lycra bicycle suits. The curves of their shapely toned bodies screamed from their racing bikes like wanting kittens. Two panting men in their own condom-like suits pulled up on either side of the girls and started to chat to them. Then another pulled up, tapped one of the kitten’s back wheels and waved. The guys were all out for chasing the two curvy Lycra suits. They were like barracudas hunting angelfish - well hardly angelfish, she thought. This happened so often in the mornings she barely noticed it. Except this morning, the light had changed and the guys were still only pulling away slowly. They wanted a better rear view of the street menu probably. She imperiously rang her bell and as a unified school the fish looked scornfully back. One of the girls laughed at Jenny’s bicycle.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my bicycle, you stupid cow,’ Jenny thought. Sure it was at least a thousand dollars cheaper and maybe the wicker basket and plastic flowers on the front were not de rigueur for the lycra market and she didn’t have any gears, but it got her to work in one piece. They could get stuffed.

  As the condom suits sped off she pumped leisurely on the pedals, it was too nice a morning to get in a sweat. She was just slowing for a light when there was a slight tug at her ankle and she wobbled. She had to be careful, the road was busy. She came to the stoplight and tipped to one side. She tried to catch herself but her dress was caught in the chain, even though she had plastic dress guards on her back wheel. Unable to put her leg out, she fell ungraciously to the sidewalk with her dress kicking up high. She quickly covered herself and held her left bum cheek. It had taken the brunt of the fall and was screaming abuse at her. Her bicycle was still in the street and she dragged it, hopping with her dress still trapped inside, off onto the sidewalk. It was a terrible tangle. She tried moving the pedals backwards and hopped about on one leg, trying to untangle and keep her balance. The light turned to green and a half dozen men watched as she bounced around trying to back the rear wheel free of her dress. Her hands were getting greasy and the corner of her dress was stretched and dirty. She looked up in frustration at the men, she didn’t have the power to pull the dress free. The light changed and every cyclist pumped on their pedals and left her stranded there with her dress like an irretraceable umbilical cord linked to a glowering hunk of metal. Strike two for Monday morning grace and honor she thought. She hopped around and set her foot against the back tire and heaved. The dress came free with a rip. There was a foot-long tear along the hem and it was covered in grease, as were her hands, parts of her face and the underside of her nose. The smudge on her nose continued up over the top to almost between her eyes giving her a raccoon like appearance. She, of course, had no idea it was there.

  She managed to tear off the bit of dangling hem and put it, along with her old messenger bag and packed lunch, back into the wicker basket. At the next light change she was back on her journey. It was only another three or four blocks. The bruise on her bum throbbed like a Van Halen concert. Monday was starting out to be a crap day for the twenty-nine year old. She would fix the dress at lunch. Hopefully no one would notice, or would they notice and she could have something to chat about.

  She pulled into the bicycle parking area and like any Monday morning the bicycle bays were all full and jammed tight to one another. She found an opening and lifted the bike up on its back tire hoping to drop it into the slot. It missed the slot but caught her thumb between her handlebar and the next bike’s. She shook her thumb wildly and sucked on it.

  “Ow, ow, ow. God what a shitty day.”

  She decided to leave her bike half in - half out. “The hell with it.”

  She moved across the square to the front of the building. The Publishing agency she worked for, Col
ey and Greenspan, was on the seventh to eleventh floors of the Oasis building and was one of the most prestigious, if slightly smaller firms, in the country. She was on the seventh floor and had been with them for over five years. She knew she had to move up the ladder, but it seemed she was forever overlooked, though the number of secondary readings she received was very high. She tended to receive a larger number of literary novels and the pulp seemed to go elsewhere. A cackle of laughter made her turn away from the sign-in desk. Two of the male readers from her floor were playfully ushering one of the girls from the administration department, one floor up from her, through the door. No one had opened the door for Jenny, ever.

  She held the elevator door open for the party of three. The elevators in this building were devastatingly slow, they took forever to arrive. They came every four or five minutes and then typically all four of the elevators would arrive at once. They could have been London buses. She stood at the rear of the elevator and made way for them. At least the minxy girl was good enough to thank Jenny, though she had a strange, belittling, scrunched up look on her face. Her nose could have been a ski slope she looked so far down it at Jenny. They talked among themselves as if Jenny was not even there. She had to actually push past the two men to get out of the elevator. They continued to try to chat up the receptionist, obviously hoping to advance themselves. Jenny admitted the receptionist was pretty, but then all she had to do was run the phones and even then it took two of them to do it.

  No one noticed the tear in her dress, in fact, no one really even looked at her beyond the most cursory of glances and greetings. Her cubicle was at the very far corner of the office and as a result the walk always seemed to be an unholy challenge. It was the very antithesis of a sword-bearing arch of celebration. More like a pen waving homage to the clever literary recluse in the back of the bus. She had their respect, even if she wasn’t part of their group. Some were younger, some older, it made no difference, as she was not part of the set. Once inside her cubicle she set her lunch and messenger bag down, and rubbed the top of the other thick volume in her life.

  “Morning Geoffrey, any tales to tell?”

  She set about her work. Her emails flagged a group meeting in fifteen minutes. That would no doubt be the announcement of the next study group to cover the Assarimov trilogy. “Uggh. Fantasy novels,” she groaned. She didn’t do fantasy, couldn’t stand it.

  They gathered to the front of the office. There were too many of them, almost twenty, to gather into one meeting room. Some leaned against walls others against desks and the keener ones stood to the front. Jenny was at the very rear.

  Robert Coley, son of the founding member and about thirty-one, stood in front of the group. Jenny sat back and watched the posturing game of social politics. She was so uninterested in the brown-nosers and little tarts who wanted to tease their way to advancement.

  “So based on those of you who submitted for the Assarimov novels,” a glance flashed across toward Jenny, “the study group will be Rita, David and Stephen. The stuff will be with you tomorrow. As for everyone else, it was good stuff, a fun read, all of them.” He moved through the other readers toward Jenny. He greeted many of them by name and would kid and joke with them. Robert was a very hands-on director. Jenny had slipped behind her desk and pulled the old Chaucer out. She was sure he was coming to see her. He leaned over the cubicle wall.

  “Hi Jennifer.”

  “Hi.” She hated being called ‘Jennifer’ and he knew it. He did it to mock her probably. They had been sort of close friends once but he had gone cold on her, for whatever reason. She tucked the damaged right side of her dress under the chair. Jenny looked back at the Chaucer, anything to avoid him. She used to like him, almost a lot but now he seemed to have so many girlfriends, all gorgeous of course, plus he was from a hugely literary family. She wasn’t in his league or perhaps his girlfriends league, whatever that was. She really didn’t want to bother with all that but then… she did. In any case Jenny had always liked Robert’s father though. It was him that had hired her in the first place.

  “You well?”

  “Yeah, yeah, busy.”

  “Doing what? Auditions?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Auditions for Rocky raccoon.” He reached over and took the small pop up compact sitting on top of a file cabinet and held it to her face. “Arooo. Is that the sound of a raccoon?”

  “No it’s chichichichi.” Then she saw it. The black grease streak dividing her face barked from the compact, she immediately started to wipe it with a Kleenex.

  “Well you’d know.” He said. “So what’ve you been up to apart from mechanics?”

  “Stuff, you know.” She was hopeless at small talk and she knew exactly why he was here. She was desperate to get the streak off and not look like an idiot.

  “So, I never see you out with the gang. For drinks. You know it’s good to bounce ideas-”

  “I’m not so good at the social things anymore.” She was getting flustered. And trying to scrub as hard and discreetly as possible. Why did he have to stand and probe? “I kind of lost it after uni.” Was the smudge coming off or getting worse. God what a shitty Monday!

  “Which is a good point. Why is it our most highly educated reader didn’t bother to submit for group work?” He peered down at the nervous, shrinking, yellow cardigan. Jenny was still busily scrubbing her nose. “You used to.”

  “Well…” she had no intention of telling him the truth. She turned away with the compact to inspect the damage. She could feel his grin.

  “We used to have a howl at some of your high brow blasts, it brought color to the day. My Dad used to take them home and read them to my mother.”

  “Well I never got selected, so I lost interest in group work. Assarimov’s fantasy work isn’t my thing, I know it’s a big market but to me it is fabricated drivel. I prefer what’s sent my way.” She looked back at him hoping the grease streak was gone. It was but now in its place was a virtual glowing red friction burn. “Is there a problem with my work?”

  “No, no, God no. Anything but. One of the partners just asked about you.”

  “Oh.” Her interest was aroused, no one ever seemed to pay her any attention.

  “Well I better get back. You should, you know, go out with these guys…” She stared back at him with total disinterest at the possibility. “I mean we used to … well whatever,” he said playfully, “just cut with the raccoon auditions.” He tried to laugh but it died on his lips. He left awkwardly.

  Jenny wondered why she treated him so vacantly, she didn’t even smile when he tried to joke. He had actually been a nice guy to her over the years, bit of a ‘lad’ as the Brits would say, but always pleasant. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to know there was a lonely pulse at home in her heart. Easiest way to avoid pain is to not be alive.

  She turned to her morning work - rejection slips. ‘Lovely’ she thought ‘just the way to start your Monday, sending out a hundred rejections.’ Why did she have to do it for the entire floor? She only had eighteen of her own to send. She sighed and started. It was what she did. She hoped to finish by lunch.

  The mundane heartlessness of sending out disappointment in a mass mail-out always left her feeling as if she was spreading the common cold or some debilitating disease that would rifle through the populace. But it had to be done, she just hated that it was her whom Charles, the reading room head, always allocated for the distasteful job. Why did he insist on being a ‘Charles and not a Charlie’? His ‘Britishness’ sometimes made her ill. Regardless though it was her task and she plowed into it.

  Three hours later she ambled across the ground floor foyer. Her feet felt as if they were detached from her legs. The despondency in them suggested they did not want to walk the four hundred yards to the park. Having sent the rejections always made her feel dark, especially if she had never read the work personally.
She went to her usual bench along the canal. Every decent day she came and sat at the same bench. It was the most visible and at the same time the most secluded bench along the slow murky green water of the twenty-yard wide canal. People could be seen from some distance away, so it would be strange to approach the bench, particularly if there were some one already on it. ‘The psychology of benches’, she shook her head – it was a very weird Monday. She pulled out her small, hand sewing kit. She could repair her dress in fifteen minutes.

  She set the sewing kit beside her on a piece of scrap paper that happened to be on the bench. The paper was slightly crumpled, but lined. It actually had very neat writing on it. Probably a page lost from a student’s folder or some letter found wanting and discarded in anger. Yet the paper looked more as if it had been repeatedly folded or stuffed in a pocket and carried around, not angrily disposed of. It appeared more like it had, at one time, been treasured. It lay flat on the bench beside her. It was surprising that it hadn’t blown away. The writing was very precise, very feminine, like hers in a way. She glanced briefly from side to side, there was no one around. Across the canal there was no one, only the stark trees that stood like a regimented picket fence. They had been planted at precise intervals and as a result had a lifeless kind of cold about them. The branches unfolded high up, leaving the slender trunks like exposed, coarse stork legs. It was like a Brueghel painting without the peasants – was that even conceivable? She shook her head and turned her attention to the discarded paper, confident there was no one around.

  She reached for the paper. On the outside were two simple words. ‘For Joy’. She opened it. It was a poem. The moment she read the title her voice faded to a rasp, to a swish of hot wind on sand. The whisper echoed inside her head as if the poem had some power, like a gentle soul watching. She stopped and looked up. There was no one. A tramp, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled through the park a hundred yards away, he had a big dog with him. There was no one else - no wind, even the ducks had drifted up the canal, the only thing watching were the row of stark cold trees, sentinels.

  LOVE ON A PARK BENCH 1

  I chanced upon her while out walking

  drinking in the morning dew,

  She stood among the diamond carpet

  as my spellbound wonder grew.

  Was this entity drifting in splendor

  some goddess from heaven sent,

  Or was my mind conjuring my lovelorn heart

  upon a quest of passion’s intent?

  Her neck, like an alabaster swan’s, tilted and

  showered a glance my way.

  My blood pulsed, thundered in my breast

  it clamored not to sway.

  Her lips were first, their innocent fullness

  sealed my presence,

  Parting slightly, the whisper of hope

  enraptured my essence.

  Then her eyes were cast upon me

  wafting upward through my soul

  Those oceans of wonder sifted through my dreams

  surrounding my heart’s atoll.

  Her cheeks were silken and drifted like sparrow wings

  on fresh fallen snow,

  I dream to touch them and caress that dune of purity –

  this goddess on show.

  She gazed back at my awestruck wonder

  asking a breathless ‘why’.

  Could I stand motionless, too frightened

  to allow my ardor to try?

  Her smile quivered, welcoming like a cherry blossom

  dancing in the breeze,

  My strength was butter, my love pulsed,

  blurring the power of my knees.

  Could a woman so captivating, graciously disarm

  me like a schoolboy at her leisure?

  Willingly I allowed her to take me, toy with me,

  I should yearn to be her pleasure.

  But it was just a smile, a shattering playful love

  struck grin.

  It was my heart that thundered to fabricate the love

  groans from within.

  I was helpless to her view, a dancing wind chime

  spinning in her sight.

  Oh that she should touch me, speak to me, would

  fog my mind with delight.

  Still I stood there suspended by those azure oceans,

  her fathomless eyes.

  There was no escape, I was willing and bound to

  drown in love drenched sighs.

  But then the moment passed, a wisp of cloud

  drifted across her face.

  I knew that my heart song spiraled downward

  lost in my churlish disgrace.

  Had I but spoken or motioned

  or uttered a sound,

  She would not have vanished completely

  never to turn round.

  Left in stupor, my heart in my ears

  pounded as thunder

  My passions ocean was bankrupt,

  torn asunder.

  Perhaps another day I’ll meet her and grasp my chance

  Perhaps another day I’ll luck on a park bench romantic

  happenstance.

  Jenny’s eyes were dazed, her breath short and choppy, why had this poem churned her? She felt the desire, the wanting of the poem, a visceral need. Perhaps there was some one watching. She tingled all over, her cheeks, elbows, neck, chest it was mad. She was desperate to be seen in that way, her pulse screamed to be wanted that way. Jenny stood quickly and glanced around unaware the poem was clutched to her breast. Her long skirt swirled as she twisted this way and that. Sounds subtly flowed back. Ducks, cars, even a few joggers came toward her, a mother pushed a pram on the other side of the canal. She sat down. Her eyelids were moist, hot. Her breasts heaved inside her dress, her neck was hot. Her skin tingled and toyed with her passion. She could feel the clench of her molars and yet her tongue was languid. What was going on? Jenny swallowed and straightened. The pit of her stomach was all sparkles and sprites. She drank the noon air and another flush tingled up the side of her face. It had started from the scraping of her nipples against her bra, they were hard, her neck was all pins and needles. She looked back at the paper. What was it? Was she so desperate for love as to be tricked into a fright, a near orgasm - from reading? Absurd, she thought it was a child’s work. The poem lacked the integrity of education, it lacked appropriate cadence, it was forced. She was about to throw it onto the bench, discard it back where it belonged. Her fingers lingered. She couldn’t let it go. Her hands trembled slightly. Was it excitement, fear? Her mind swirled, was it Justine and Juliet? Was she Madame de Sade enthralled by the Marquis’ secret exploits? Good God, she thought, she was really losing the plot now! She folded it carefully, smoothing it out. She could deal with it later; she slipped it into her purse. The heck with fixing the dress, she would repair it at home. She needed a coffee. She hurried to the Starbucks on the corner for a frappaccino.

  Cold and sweet, the coffee drifted down calming the flush on her neck. The flush was absurd but oddly rejuvenating, enticing. She had never been the voyeur type. She had never even seen a porn film, often she turned away or rummaged for a chocolate or a sweet during bed scenes in movies. She looked the other way when couples kissed. It wasn’t polite to watch them, it was their magic, not hers. Yet she had read the letter and shared the passion. The simple poem had found a way to grab places inside her that even she thought were dormant. The whole thing was absurd, she must be tired. She swirled the cup and downed the cream lying at the bottom. It playfully tingled on her lips and she licked at it with her tongue. A little boy one booth down was doing the same thing and grinned at her. She grinned back.

  She entered the office and passed Bernadette who leaned backward. “Whoa where have you been?” Bernadette said with a sly grin.

  “What?” Jenny had no idea what her colleague was going on about.

  “Uhuh, I know that glow. Good
on yer girl.” She nudged her elbow.

  “What? I was in the park and… and… Starbucks having a frappaccino.”

  “Hey, Sally look at the glow on this girl. Says she’s been having a wrappaccino.”

  “Ooh Jens. Calm down girl. It’s Monday, we have the whole week ahead of us.” They both laughed at their little joke. It flew past Jenny completely.

  She shook her head and walked to her desk leaving them to giggle. Idiots! She had no idea what they were on about, probably trying to wind her up for some insane joke, even though they weren’t really that kind. She didn’t speak to them that much, but they were okay. They were younger and always looking for action with men or so it seemed. Just what they were up to today was beyond her.

  Two hours had passed and she had focused entirely on each of the half dozen synopses she’d had to read. Five were simple rejections but one was unusual and she thought they should have a read of the entire script. It always made her feel good to be able to send a spot of encouragement out to a writer. It was a rare enough occurrence. After writing a short note to request the full script she clipped it to the envelope and put it in the out tray next to her handbag. She looked at her messenger bag, it was a bit old and tired. She’d had it for seven years or so, before she left university. Maybe it was time for a new one, but then, it still had life in it. Her fingers touched the worn soft black leather, it had a friendly glow. Jenny grabbed her cup with the picture of a Westie on it and headed for the coffee room. A nice late afternoon tea would help through the last two hours of work. Tea breaks and the long walk across the office was something she usually avoided, preferring to stay in the back and nurse a cup all day. Besides if you drank too much tea you had to invariably go to the toilet more and that meant you had to cross the office more, so all in all, it was easier to stay at her desk. This afternoon though, she felt brighter and moved briskly past the other cubicles to the coffee room. Most of the heads remained bent over, focused on their work. Readers when gathered on mass like this tended to be solitary, full of small cliques and social groups, all of which seemed to be foreign to her. She met Bernadette at the coffee machine and tried to avoid eye contact with her.

  Bernadette touched Jenny’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about what I said before. It was stupid.”

  “Don’t worry about, it’s been a weird Monday. It started off with Robert telling me off for not submitting my opinions for the Assarimov fantasy novels.”

  “Yeah? Why didn’t you? I would love to get into all that. Group work can really be inspiring and specially when you meet the author, he’s alright you know.”

  “I didn’t, it doesn’t really…” She poured milk in her tea and swirled the tea bag.

  Bernadette could see the awkwardness. “You review anything good today?”

  “Yeah, few things, actually one was an interesting period piece on Lermontov.”

  “Hold it right there, I do Junior Adult; vampires, horror, teen heartbreak, I stay away from Russian poets. There is way too much passion and madness.”

  “Passion and madness? That’s our Jenny, eh? Old smudgy nose. Ha!” Charles had just come into the small coffee room.

  Jenny didn’t like him, he was forever trying to make fun of her. He was tall, pear-shaped and had a forced British accent, which seemed to get thicker and more arrogant around women. Jenny thought about his put-on literary arrogance and remembered the word ‘prat’ as a description for him. She couldn’t think of an American term, perhaps ‘jerk/wannabe/smartass’, it didn’t flow well. No, he was a ‘prat’, irritating like a small stone in a sandal.

  “What do you mean Charles?” Bernadette asked. Jenny was already trying to move toward the doorway past the oafish physique of Charles.

  “Well sex and madness, passion and play aren’t exactly encompassed in the world of Jenny frocks.” He laughed at his own lame joke.

  Jenny whipped back. “What if under the frocks are garters and fish net, pulsing lovers and whips that would turn your juvenile pubescent little manhood on its head. That would shrivel you back to the pathetic world of sci-fi - make believe, that you incessantly escape to with that limp member you call humor, you prat.” She spat the last word at him with far more anger than she intended. It just seemed to shoot out at him. She strutted past him stunned by her own bitterness.

  “Holy shit, you been told.” Bernadette howled. “All hail the chief.” Bernadette crossed out after Jenny. “Jenny, if I need some one to tell a bar creep to take a hike, I’ll give you a call. That was fantastic.” Bernadette stopped Jenny, rubbed her shoulder and whispered, “And way overdue.” She moved past Jenny back toward her desk. Jenny glared back at the ’Prat’. She had never spoken with such bile at anyone before. She bit her lip as her eyes began to fill.

  She didn’t mean it to come out as vehemently as it did. In fact she felt like apologizing. Charles stood open mouthed and filled the doorway to the coffee room in his rumpled tweed and corduroys. He stirred his tea slowly, stupidly. He stared back at Jenny with a resumption of his supercilious air. Jenny considered apologizing again and decided she wouldn’t. How dare he imply she had no passion?

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent torn between the physical humdrum of rejections and the vortex in her mind of ‘Sex and madness, passion and play encompassed by Jenny frocks’. What a jerk Charles was. It had been a Monday to forget.

  She opened her apartment door and rubbed Will, the Bard was always there. She put her bicycle keys beside the huge volume and crossed to open the patio doors. Her apartment was not a huge place, a one bedroom with a small study, but was on the fourth floor of five. It had a good street view of the local shops and the small square off to the left. There were occasional flea markets down there, usually at the beginning of the month, so there should be one this weekend. She’d have to go.

  Cooking seemed an unnecessary hassle and the day was still bright. She took a grapefruit from the fridge, sliced it and sat at her little two-chair café set on the balcony.

  The café set was bought when she first moved in. It was nothing special but had a classic Parisian design that evoked a romantic past, even if it wasn’t hers. Hidden away above the crowds it seemed the balcony was a lost charm for her to snuggle behind.

  She pulled out the reading she needed to finish for work and tried to get involved in the earnest words of the established author. The story sounded compelling yet on the balcony it was leaving her undernourished. The writing was obviously accomplished and it wasn’t a bad read at all, yet it was very easy to set down. She had another slice of grapefruit and gazed down at the bustle below her balcony. A sound to her right took her attention and she saw the familiar white vest of her neighbor Mr. Viallini as he stepped out to water the flower boxes his wife so dearly cared for.

  “Gianluca, hello.” She called to him.

  “Ah, hello Jenny. It is a glorious day.” He was such a sweet old man, she thought, unflinchingly Italian, all the way to the Napoli flag draped on his balcony.

  “Why are you on water duty? Has your wife gone to watch Inter play AC Milan? Some good players there.”

  He feigned a plunge to his chest. He was always so overdramatic. “You Americans can crush the heart of a man in a single word. My lovely Sacha may know nothing of football, but she would never consider such a sacrilege.”

  She waved a playful apology. “Alright, alright.”

  “Sacha is visiting her mother for a week. Mama is not so well.”

  “I hope she gets better.”

  “Thank you. Sorry, I must go now. If my Sacha is away I can go to the sports bar and watch football. Reggina will get their butts kicked today. It will be fantissimo!”

  She just smiled. She had already gone well beyond her soccer knowledge and the last thing she needed was for him to start talking soccer or football, which ever it was. He trundled happily inside. They had lived there far
longer than she had and had been the best of neighbors. They always kept to themselves, but were always considerate and helpful.

  She rifled through her messenger bag and pulled out a reading assignment given to several on the floor. It was not a long piece so she thought she could polish it off quickly. It was the second installment in a collection of poetry from an up and coming socialite author. He’d had some success with another publishing house and the company was hoping to ride on that bit of success. She opened the folder with high hopes of meandering through the twenty odd poems and getting a good initial feel for them before more in depth analysis.

  The reading left her cold and uninterested. The themes of the work were rife with plight, plagues of immorality and the desperation of the human condition. It was like Tarrantino’s interpretation of Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’. She didn’t enjoy it at all. She had enough of that in her own life.

  Why were people so caught up with the vile debasing qualities of humans, couldn't we dream of better things? She thought about her dress and the fight with her basket, the jerk or was it ‘prat’ at the office. Charles’ comment of ‘sex, madness and Jenny frocks’ haunted her like a nagging cold. Her regular Monday life was bogged in a haze of disappointments.

  She slapped the folder closed and went in to click on the TV. Sex in the City came on. She didn’t watch much TV, least of all a program like Sex in the City. But then it was something she was definitely not getting, so she would stay with it - for fifteen minutes. She felt pensive and gloomy.

  It had been almost an hour and she was still parked in front of the television. She reached for the remote and clicked the screen to darkness. The square image collapsed into a black void and she was left to stare at the vacuous TV box as it reflected her image. She felt she had just wasted an hour of her life. The show hadn’t wasted it. No, she had, by searching the sitcom for an hour. She’d been looking for an answer in a television show that couldn’t possibly address why she was alone. Why romance, to her these days, was a cold stone. Her feet thumped like clogs over the maple flooring as she went to run a bath.

  She slipped in and tilted her head back, the warmth lapped over her. The water buoyed her and clung with its lavender scent to her body. She felt as if she were in a cocoon, enveloped in a womb of affection. A bath could take one into a place of bliss. Showers you could hop in and out, it was over and you could still actually emerge with the same angst. Baths though, were different, you immersed your self in an embryonic utopia and would always emerge newborn, even if just by a fraction.

  Her mind, filled with lavender, drifted over fields of nothingness. Her thoughts floated there until the crumpled letter flashed through her mind. That poem - how could it have shaken her so, it was just a poem – not even particularly good. But she hadn’t felt like that in some time. A tinge of guilt tensed her lips. Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken the letter, it wasn’t addressed to her – but then it wasn’t addressed at all and was probably discarded. So, surely it was a case of finder’s keepers? Satisfied she had done no wrong, she was content to read it again in bed before drifting off.

  She slipped out of the bath, the lavender scented water lingered and trickled from her body. Her body was slender and shapely – what did that ‘prat’ know about what lay beneath a Jenny frock? She felt her mood evaporating and she shook her head to rid herself of the foul foggish comment.

  After drying off, she had intended on shaving her legs and doing a mask but found she wanted to get to the poem. She could probably wax rather than shave and she could do that tomorrow. The mask could also wait. She pulled on her pink satin pajamas. Charles may think her frocks were boring but her bedroom attire was a different matter. That nerd, wanker, they’d call him in his country, probably wears flannel stripes or even better flannel with little ships and anchors. She smirked at the ridiculous picture of the fat, pear-like Charles in her mind. God she detested him.

  She curled into bed and reached for the folded paper poking from her handbag. She hesitated. It was someone else’s love she was reading about, was that right? Of course everyone reads sonnets - well - some people do. She smiled to herself confident that she was in her rights to escape into the poem. She unfolded the paper.

  She read, ‘I chanced upon her…’ it happened again, she was reading and drifting. She lay there reading the words and yet not hearing them in her mind.

  How could this be? ‘My passion’s ocean was bankrupt…’ she wanted to kick him for being such a fool. How could he miss such beautiful a woman? She was tingling, the sheets were a crisp sensation across her skin.

  Would a man view her that way? She felt her throat, it was hot, flushed. She laid back flat on the pillow, her back arched, she felt his lips cool the burning on her neck.

  The night had been torrid and at the same time blissful. How could she not have seen him? He was there all through the night; beside her, taking her to the theater, holding her arm, walking their dog, he carried the picnic hamper, rowing on the canal. He hated those dizzying theme park rides, so did she. The ice creams and games of chance – he was hopeless at hoop toss - she was so much better. But he did so well at the milk bottles. He gave all their prizes away.

  His face was not there. He was handsome, she knew that, and his hair was dark and wavy, almost Spanish, his skin was smooth and his chest cut from something altogether unworldly. He had a faint scent of woods, like the big forests back in Wyoming. She reached for the small prize doll she had won. It wasn’t there.

  It was the flashing of the LED on the alarm clock.

  MY GOD! 8:15!