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Just One Bench Over Was Where He Sat
Quickly, I maneuvered my way down the walking path. Though the day was cold, the park was still crowded. Small children danced in the flurries of snow while there parents stood near by, rubbing there hands together and smiling. An old man sat underneath a tree, reading while his grand daughter (I knew this; they shared the same sparkling blue eyes; the same fantastic smile) dangled from the limbs of the ever green above him. The pond was frozen over with a thick sheet of ice, while many people skated over its surface. A girl in a red sweater and a red cap had her arms spread to both sides, as if flying. She did a split in the air while a boy wearing a white jacket and tight black gloves hoisted her in the air. Both wore black tights and white skates. A small girl was sitting on the ice staring up at them, awestruck. I could almost see the gears turning in her head, she was thinking, I want that to be me. I want that to be me flying. I grinned and blew into my hands as I remembered all of the times I had done that. Just sat there, and wished.
When I finished taking in my surroundings, I surveyed the area for an empty bench. I found one right smack dab in the middle of everything. I pulled out my red composition journal, and my sleek silver pen. I opened the journal and uncapped my pen, but found myself writing nothing. Just meaningless lines and etchings across the page, but I needed to write. There were many words in my mind, but I couldn’t catch them before they flew away. There were just too many, like a wave, they crashed upon me and drowned me. I looked around, trying to take the words from my surroundings, but for some reason there was nothing, just more lines. That is, until my sight landed on a boy. He was hunched over a book also, but his was for more beautiful than mine. Not the outside (that I know of, I couldn’t see it), but the inside. Instead of words there was pictures. From what I saw I saw a tiger lily, sketched so realistically that it could have been a picture. And what I could see, the picture he was sketching was of a girl, you couldn’t see her face but she had long straight hair, she wore a dark sweater, through the hair you could just barely see a scar. On the girls lap was a notebook, lines on the pages seemed to etch a word… Truth. The boy was immersed in his drawing, he didn’t notice me watching. He wore a grey hooded sweatshirt, a blue shirt underneath with a pair of ripped jeans. He had dark hair, so dark in fact, that it could only be described as black. He had ghostly pale skin, it reminded me of snow. Underneath his many layers of clothes, he seemed to have a strong build. Although he was sitting, I could tell he was tall, but not yet six feet.
I rubbed my neck, feeling the bump where the scar was, and I smiled. He must have felt my gaze, because he looked up quickly. Instead of looking away, like most people would, I looked back at him. He was undeniably handsome, he glared at me through piercing hazel eyes. He had a lip ring and I found myself wondering why he got it. Was it his way to rebel against someone? Was he sad and thought it would make him feel happier? Was he trying to stand out? Fit in? Did he just think it looked cool? He held my gaze a moment longer before dropping his eyes, looking back at his book.
Without really meaning to, I stood and walked over to him, sitting down beside him on the bench. He looked up quickly, as if confused, but looked down again trying to hide that looking up had originally happened.
“Hi.” I said, trying to make my voice even instead of shaking, the way I knew would happen. I mean, I’ve never been good at talking to people, why should that start now?
“Hi.” He replied irritably, but even through that, his voice was soft and smooth like satin. Close, he smelled of pine, like the trees that surrounded us. I looked up at him from my hands that were fold neatly on my lap. I could have stared at them for hours, just thinking of all the ways I had gotten the many scars, or the many hours on bars giving me my hard, callused hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I began, “But I noticed you were drawing. Mind if I see?” Wow, I sounded lame. God, this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.
“Yes.” He answered simply, not looking up from his notebook. He was on a different page. He hand move rhythmically across the page. It looked like a trunk of a tree. We sat there a few moments in uncomfortable silence before he broke it in two.
“Seriously, what do you want?” He asked bitterly. I was obviously annoying him.
“I want to know.”
It’s funny actually. Not only did that conversation cure my writers block, but it started a friendship that lasted years. We don’t know where this is going, but the many arguments we have, haven’t ruined our friendship yet. So neither of us are willing to give up.