Message for a Stranger
Imagine you leave a note for a stranger- what could it say?
The next person to sit on this cold marble bench should know something. I was here this morning, and I sat for three whole hours, waiting. I watched men in suits and women wearing skirts with running shoes pile into the revolving doors, shielding their Starbucks from the biting gusts of January wind. The horns and racing engines from the busy street behind made it difficult to make out the conversation next to me. But eventually, the traffic slowed and it quieted down as rush hour passed.
The morning sun was blinding off of the tall white granite building. There were six benches around the courtyard. I sat on the second one in, two people sat on the next one. They had been here for ten minutes.
The couple never even noticed me. I could smell the bacon from his breakfast sandwich, and hear him smacking his lips as he licked the egg off his fat fingers. He wiped his hands repeatedly on the leg of his jeans. The woman had short black hair, and looked about twenty. She was wearing too much perfume, or I was just caught down wind, but the smell of lilacs was not meshing well with the bacon. In fact, it was making me a little queasy.
The woman had a long, purple, fuzzy knit scarf wrapped around her shoulders, and her manicured fingers kept pulling at the ends of the fringe. Tears were running down her cheeks. She spoke cautiously.
“Mumble…mumble…not your fault…it would have happened eventually…”
The man nodded, and threw the sandwich wrapping on the ground. The wind immediately scooped it up and sent it past me, scurrying down the street. He pulled a can of Coke from his leather coat pocket and rested it on the bench next to him, between us.
“Well, I’m not too surprised,” he responded curtly, “and it’s not MY fault, honey, it’s YOURS.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” she said bitterly. “It’s more complicated than a simple divorce and you know it.”
“Yeah, don’t I…,” he replied, with a touch of sarcasm.
She winced, folded her arms, and looked away.
Without looking down, he popped open the soda can, and I could see him slip a few white pills inside. The man waited a moment. He sighed heavily, and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, soda cupped in his hands.
“Coke?” he asked her, offering up the can. She turned back to him, smiled slightly, and took the beverage. She took a long drink, and looked wearily at the people rushing by. She handed him back the Coke.
“I think I’ll go home now,” she said, standing suddenly, ”I’m going to call the lawyer and figure out what we’re going to do about our problem.”
“You do that,” he responded with a grin, “but don’t worry too much. Things have a way of working themselves out.” He put the can down on the ground, got up, pulled his leather coat collar up tight around his scrubby cheeks, turned, and crossed the street.
She watched him walk away for a moment, caught my eye briefly, and turned in the opposite direction. She made it through the courtyard, staggered for a moment, grabbed her stomach, and then collapsed. No one has seen her yet besides me.
I fumbled for a napkin and a pen in my backpack, picked up the can of Coke, and walked to the last bench. I felt the warmth of the winter sun on my face, and began to write you this note.
