A young woman sat on the park bench next to his gripes and old bones. Her face was known yet unknown. Her voice was like his mother’s, as soft as warm rain. When she said hello, her deep eyes dove inside his window and occupied him like an army of goodness. They talked… the June sun skittered across the sky. His life stories spilled into her sanctuary. She would say, “I know” a lot. And she did. If a lie tripped from his lips, she would say, “You don’t need bullshit with me.” Her words were daggers of understanding. He listened like never before. No birds heard, or cars, or playground noise— Only her speaking, like she knew every ounce of him. And she did. Her stories spoke a truth that broke open his bones and filled them. She slid over, touched him, and whispered, “You have what’s in a man that makes a woman love him.” He wanted to kiss her. Hold her. Be deep inside a slow dance of her. He closed his quivering lids with a tight blink. When he opened them, his life ended there without ovation.
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