They had grabbed a train from Secaucus into the city for a dinner alone, but now he wanted to see the elms in Central Park. So they walked from 43rd up to 68th and over.
He walked beside her, keeping stride, but they’d run out of things to say. In the silence he was stoic and stale, nothing left to give her. She glanced at him, his face waxen, colorless, in the light of the lamp posts; his hair, black and wavy, but she noticed strands of gray.
There had been a moment at the Moroccan restaurant where they’d eaten. The warm orange and red filtered lights had colored him with life and she thought there might be something for them yet.
He had told her he still had nightmares from his time in the Navy. More than a decade later, he still felt the confinement of the ship, he’d said. She listened. She tried to find something to offer him in return.
But beneath the elms, she couldn’t think of what to say.
She thought to take his hand in hers, even felt a sense of resolve as she envisioned herself doing so, but was afraid he might see the slash on her wrists from where she’d cut herself the day before.
It seemed too complicated, and Central Park seemed too big for the gesture, the Mall too long of a stretch. She tucked the hems of her sleeves in her palms. His hands were buried in his pockets.
He drew in a breath, short as the winter day, and exhaled heavily. He brushed against her, but she felt sure it was an accident and kept her head down as they walked back to Grand Central.
If you enjoyed this vignette, take a gander at the rhyme-schemed iteration.
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