It was the first day of spring. No, not March 21st, but the real first day of spring: The day when the peonies are in full bloom, and the sky is a clear, unbothered blue, and the hemlines are shorter, and there is the persistent glisten of sweat along the line from collarbone to clavicle to right between the breasts.

On that day, I sat myself down on a bench in Central Park; my legs immediately split open, letting the blue plastic bag filled with cans of cold beer hang between them. I reached for one, and felt the can’s perspiration cool my sweating palms. The telltale sound of a beer can opening, that pshhhh sound, was music to my ears. I settled into the bench, letting the oblivious traffic of the daily commute pass right before me. I let them go, rounds and rounds of grey suits with The New York Times tucked under their armpits, unacknowledged. I had about thirty minutes before Cherry expected me to be back with the milk and the lucky’s. I pulled out my own copy of the Times, flipped over the page and began the cross. The smell of ink and heat made me dizzy with excitement.

I could feel my stomach resting on top of my track pant waistband, an unfortunate addition to the facade I created for myself amongst the park community. Jeff, the guy across the fountain, made this a full time job. He was here from 10 in the morning to 10 at night, even on Christmas. My guess was he was in his late fifties. His brown hair thinned out as it reached the nape of his neck but you could never tell because he always kept a suede muffler wrapped around his head. Maggie was sitting a few benches down. She looked up from her knitting every few minutes to throw crumbs at the pigeons that congregated at her feet. She was nice enough from the thirty second conversation I had with her two years ago. I had said, Lovely weather today, perfect weather for doing nothing. To which she responded, Yes, yes. But isn’t it always? To my left usually stood Angie and Steven– a singing duo who only came on Wednesdays and Sundays, but always ended up leaving after an hour.

Angie was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. For months I’ve been watching her perform every Wednesday and Sunday, attracting tiny crowds and making menial petty cash. Her skin was the color of nougat, and her hair created a halo of tight honey curls around the crown of her head. Today she arrived before Steven did and approached my bench, appearing in front of me, the early April sun making her a wispy silhouette amidst the squat buildings behind her. Today she was wearing a long patterned skirt and a slightly askew beret– it gave her the illusion of exoticism. Hey Bill, got any spare for me? My skin, it came alive when she spoke. It buzzed and vibrated like crickets lived in my blood vessels and bees in my brain. For you? Always. She reached for the bag between my legs and looked up at me, a crease in her forehead as she look up at me. She patted my knee and winked. See you around, Bill. With that, I was alone again, about twenty minutes before it was time to abandon my post. What was a four letter word for longing?

Around 11 o’clock the first round of joggers ran past. A group of women stopped by the fountain, stretching their legging-clad legs on top of the marble. I fixated my stare on them, watching the way their bodies moved up and down as the gabbed about nothing. Right now, Henry’s watching the kids. He’s taking a leave from work so he can spend some more time at home. Isn’t that sweet? She wasn’t really asking her fellow runners. After months of doing this I could tell which one was the alpha, the pack leader so to speak. She was the one with the perfect highlights, who ran like her feet were feathers, and always told the group when to stop and take a stretch, or a water break, all because someone else in the group was tired. If someone challenged her, it would only be a matter of seconds before she unleashed a diatribe against the poor victim, her words just as sharp as her manicure.

Angie began to sing. She was just warming up, tuning her guitar so that it was just right. She somehow managed to sing above and in tune to the mid-morning Manhattan noise: a screaming child, traffic going past, a street vendor selling half-melted ice pops. I meandered around the fountain, trying not to appear as if I only came to hear her sing. I stopped in front of her open guitar case. It was slightly haunting, appearing to me like an open casket. If it weren’t for the push pins calling for ‘Free Love’ or stickers bearing witty slogans like “push weed not weapons” I wouldn’t have known it was hers.

Like something you see, Bill? I always did but I never told her as much. She laughed, a laugh that shook her whole body and sounded strange coming out of her small frame. You can be my first audience member. Aren’t I always, I thought to myself. She began to sing, closing her eyes so that I felt like I shouldn’t be watching her. Wind ballooned her skirt and whipped her hair, but she remained unbothered. I dropped a dollar in her case and was about to leave when I heard her say Leaving so soon?

Yeah Bill, leaving so soon? It was Steven, carrying two cups of coffee one, with ‘Angie’ written on it and the other with ‘Steven’ in thick black ink. He walked up to Angie, grabbing her face and pressing his lips to hers. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he pulled away. Angie giggled, her cheeks stained with pink, Steven!

Sorry Ang, couldn’t resist. He wrapped his arm around her waist.

I really should be going guys, Cherry’s expecting me home any second.

Angie looked at me, her brows were furrowed and her eyes were full of sympathy. The only thing I noticed in that moment was the color; they were green, the bright green color leaves turn before they lose their pigmentation in the fall. I looked at her not leaving her gaze even while I picked up my blue plastic bag from the pavement, a crease in my forehead, I said, See you around, Angie. Sometimes, I wish she’d follow me out as I exit the park, telling me to wait and leave my wife and run away together travelling the coast in a crappy car listen to folk songs and going wherever the roads take us. But that day she did none of this. I exited the park with a beer can in my hand, made my way through the streets of New York, and let the people with far busier lives pass by me.

Eventually, I made my way to my apartment building. I trudged up the stairs, my feet dragging along the water-damaged wood, turned down the narrow corridor, and stood in front of our apartment. I knew I was more than an hour late. Cherry would be well past mad by this point. She was the kind of quiet mad that materialized after hours of stewing. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door I sat on the steps, letting the bag swing between my knees and reached for a beer, letting the pshhhh sound soothe me once more.