Alone

His feet shuffle, slow and sure. He knows the path well, written deep in the memory of his muscles. The sun is bright, hanging high in the sky, and his eyes are cast down at the ground. The steps stop as he nears the wooden park bench, his gaze resting heavily on the woman there, her dark hair flowing in the chill of the autumn wind, her white scarf rustled by the cold air. Next to her is a green stroller, empty of its passenger.
         The old man stops, breathing through his mouth, panting slightly, and stares until the woman looks up at him.
         He inhales, and in one huff of an exhale, “That’s my spot.” He says sternly. The woman gives him a strange look, and so he continues. “I sit here every day at noon on the dot.”
         She blinks and tries not to show how bristled she is.. “Well sir, you’re welcome to sit next to me, or on one of the other, empty benches.”
         Without thinking about her offer, the elderly man points at the bench underneath her. “This is my bench. It’s where I sit. Not on the left side, and not on some other bench. Right here.”
         She opens her mouth to say something, but movement catches her eye. Her attention is drawn to the small playground, where the bustle of children rings in the fall breeze. She sighs, exasperated, and starts to stand. “Allison, really?” She says, getting up and rushing to the aid of a young child.
         The man looks at the stroller, then takes the handle in his grasp and wheels it over to another bench. He walks back with his shuffled, sure steps, and sits in his designated spot. A pair of minutes later, the woman returns to her space, and looks from him to the stroller some twenty feet away. She sighs and grumbles, heading for it.
         “What a rude man.” She scoffs. “You should just stay home rather than ruin other people’s days.”
         The old man watches her, listens to her, but looks away and says nothing. He sits in his spot, alone.



Its two hours later when the old man enters the traditional movie theatre. The air conditioning is running, that’s for certain, and he pulls his coat closed across his chest. The old man is patient as the line in front of him moves along, and purchases his tickets with a routine certainty. Holding the stubs in his hand now, he goes along to the center of the theatre, where a circular concessions stand waits. He stands next to a register, patiently, until a worker comes to him.
         Johnny smiles widely at his old friend. “Hey, Walter. Good to see you!”
         The old man nods, and gives a grunt. “The usual.”
         The younger hesitates, pressing the buttons on his register slowly. “So…a small popcorn and a small Sprite?” The old man nods, and hands the boy his ten dollar bill.
         Johnny steps to the side, getting the small paper cup filled with ice. “What movie are you seeing?”
         “Forget-Me-Not Gardens.”
         The soda machine clicks as the sprite is dispensed. “Oh yeah, yeah, you wanted to see that, didn’t you? The garden planted in a run-down city that brings the people together?”
         The old man shrugs.
         Johnny hands him the soda, and nods to himself. “Yeah, opening day. It’ll probably be packed, since it starts in just a few minutes.”
         The old man shrugs. “As long as there are enough seats…”
         Three minutes later, popcorn and soda in hand, the old man stands at the top of the theatre room and looks for space to sit. He steps forward, to the nearest row, and sits just off-center to the middle. He puts the small bag in one cup holder, and the drink in the other, and sits, waits, alone…
         A loud burst of laughter to his left, and he looks over. A large family enters from the other side, and files into his row. One after the other they come, and fill each seat. Next to him plops a loud, young boy, who tosses popcorn in the air and tries to catch it with his tongue.
         With a grunt, the old man seizes his things and leaves the aisle. He finds another row, completely empty…in the front. He sits with a big harrumph, just-off center, alone.



It’s nearly 5pm. The sky is clouded outside, matching well with the old man’s current mood. He sits inside a diner, alone, in the same booth and on the same side as always, a glass of pink lemonade and glass of iced water before him. He takes a sip of the latter, his hand only just slightly shaking and his lips only just quivering.
         He’s been sitting here for nearly five minutes now, not quite enjoying the peaceful lull of the busy place, but sitting there nonetheless. He had noticed upon finding his place that the other women had noticed him, and did his best to avoid eye contact—or send them a glare. He didn’t mean to, that’s just how his face had twisted now, over time.
         The four women were sitting at a table against the opposing wall. They were all near to his age, three rather large and short, one of average height and weight. This was the one who looked at him most and, he noticed, wasn’t wearing a wedding band. She had pale, almost pearlesque skin, dotted with light brown freckles. Her hair was short and curled up, a whiter pearl color than her skin. She wore real pearls in her ears and a necklace as well, which hung low into her floral-printed shirt. She looked at him every minute or so, a curiosity stamped on her face. It was when his glass was nearly half empty that she finally said a brisk word to the others and pulled herself out of the chair. She didn’t seem weak or weary for her age, and walked through the mild bustle of the diner, and straight to his table, and right straight across to the other seat.
         This makes him bristle. He looks from the spot to her, and says before she managed to introduce herself, “I prefer to be alone.”
         She nods understandably. “Yes, sure you do. My name is Marge.”
         She waits now, wondering at his reply. Such a surly old man, he was, glowering at her and her friends. She felt some sort of innate pity for him, and just couldn’t have helped but come over.
         The old man nods, and says nothing.
         “What’s your name, sir?” Marge asks him kindly.
         He blinks, his lips puckering and squishing together, wondering whether to speak or shout at her to leave. “Walter Briggs.” He says.
         She nods again, relieved. “Walter. Very nice to meet you. The waitress says you’re here every Monday afternoon. We just found the place, it’s sort of hidden behind that big fancy electronics store. What’s your favorite thing on the menu, here?”
         The old man says nothing, his lips pursing in confusion. As he hesitates, Marge makes a gesture to his glasses, condensation forming a small pool around the base of the two cups. “Pink lemonade?” She offers.
         He looks at the glass, still full, then at her. She isn’t smiling, no, but there is a lightness in her expression. A youthfulness. A welcome. Her eyes are staring at him, watching and waiting, her lips just hinting at the beginning of a smile. There is a warmth coming off her. An exuberance. A welcome.
         Watching her makes something lump in his throat. This feeling…he remembers it from high school, the first time he laid eyes on the woman named Alice McGarthy. It was strange warmth against his skin which made him feel, genuinely, accepted.
         The lump in his throat becomes bothersome and so he clears it with a great loud cough. Then, after a breath, he says, “I like the shrimp stroganoff.”
         She makes a face, slightly surprised it looks, then nods. “Yes, on second thought that does sound good. Perhaps I’ll try it. We haven’t ordered yet, see. Monday nights one of us picks a place to dine out, and today was Beth’s night. We’ve just been sitting and chatting.”
         He nods again, and keeps his lips from pursing this time. “The chili is good too.”
         Marge makes a wide smile. “Beth loves chili, she said that’s why she picked this place. It’s so brisk and cold outside.”
          He takes a sip of the water, leaving nothing but the ice to continue melting.
         Marge gives him a strange look, then… “Aren’t you going to have the lemonade?”
         He looks at the glass there, almost full, and felt his lips purse without him wanting them to. Who was this lady, asking all about him? She didn’t know him, and wouldn’t want to if she did. His lips pucker again. They form a shape, and the air moves.
         “You can’t sit there.” He says. “It’s…reserved.”
         Marge gives him a look like she was surprised. “A lady friend?”
         The glower was unintentional as he met her eyes with a serious grumble in his voice, “More than that.”
         She nods. “Yes, sure. I understand.” She slides herself from under the booth and hesitates only to say, “Nice to meet you.”, before walking the rest of the way to her table.
         Not sure whether he was relieved by her distance or upset at his own actions, the old man sits there, alone.

         

Seven o’clock at night. He is driving along the familiar gravel path at a slow and steady rate. It’s almost dark outside, but he knows the path and the way it bends. It turns to the left and he follows it, straight up to where it forks. Here he turns the truck off, opens the door, and slides out.
         His feet crunch the gravel under his boots. His hands are cold in his pocket. His eyes are stinging from the cold. His nose and ears burn. He walks just the right amount of steps before stopping, and taking a few to the right. He kneels here, in the grass just off the gravel path, and looks at the grey stone.
         Alice Briggs. 1925-2012. Beloved wife and daughter.
         He reads it over and over, reminding himself. The cold brings a drainage down his nose, and he makes a sound, snuffing it back up. He exhales deeply and takes his hands out of his pocket, the two movie tickets held within his fingertips.
         “Alice…” he says. “I saw that movie you wanted to watch. It was ok. You’d’ve liked it. There was a sour old man in it named Mister Hoff, you would have said he reminded you of me. I think you would have.”
         He sniffed again, ignoring the freezing path starting to trail down the sides of his nose. “Here,” He uses his free hand and digs a small, small hole in the ground right in front of the gravestone. “…I know you liked to collect the tickets. You can keep these ones, since they were your movie and not mine.”
         He puts the tickets into the small hole, and lays the dirt over it again. Another sniffle, and he wipes the tears from his face as his breath falters and hitches. “Some lady…well she was sitting in my spot at the bench. You would have yelled at me, I think, if you heard what I said to her. I’m sorry, I guess. The lady at The Hot Skillet, too, but she was in your spot…”
         He paused, crying, and pulled himself toward the stone. The old man put his back against it, curling just a little against the nighttime air. “Nobody will ever take your spot, darling…not anybody…never…you’ll always be the one for me…I’ll always love you…”
         There he sat, the old man, against his wife’s tombstone, crying, cold, and alone.