The park was barely illuminated, benches struck by arcs of lamplight cascading from the pillars by the short cobblestone path. Two friends walked away from the trail, meandering between the pines and shrubbery in the distance from the gate. They had known each other a good long time, and the evenings in the park had become a ritual for them. The wind was biting against exposed necks, and collars were brought up tightly. The conversation between them meandered from politics to romance, to cars and back to romance again. They were at the age of agitated men when one desires the one thing he will never comprehend to attain. Romance is a ballet of coincidences, borne from pure chance, and ending because pure chance is never really enough. Each wished to understand, but neither ever really would. They would walk home, knowing that in mutual frustration and in their own brand of empathy, friendship was sealed.
The next morning was a blinding flash of light, as they tended to be without an alarm. He woke up, and still unsatiated from the night before, took a walk down to his favorite café in the town center. The town was a small suburb, but close enough to a major city to have its own share of cafes and hipster “places”, zones in a warfare of retro t-shirts and ironic musical tastes. He passed by the local high school, seeing her once again. At 17, she was a good 6 years younger, firmly out of reach of logic. Remembering the commiseration of the night before, he knew man was not a logical creature, but he wasn’t going to push it anyway. He sat down at a wrought iron table outside the café with a bagel and a libertarian newspaper, sipping an Americano and listening to folk music on an iPod. It was Sunday, so work was off his mind, and he didn’t have another big assignment until Wednesday anyway. He took it slow, enjoying the crowd of emerging churchgoers, and realizing the oddity of seeing people at the school on a Sunday. To explain this thoroughly, she sat down at the table with him, gently removing the headphones from his ears. It was church services of course, another money-starved religious institution, meeting in the largest communal space available. Of course, she doesn’t really like church, or at least she said. It was why she was outside, listening to music and ignoring the sermon as actively as some tried to listen to it. He smiled, and explained the numerous coincidences. She knew. She enjoyed seeing him too. A small slip of paper with a phone number on it was left as she walked back to the school, now releasing the congregants from today’s indoctrination. The piece of paper made it into his wallet, and he walked back along the road playfully considering whether or not it was a good idea. Because in reality he already knew he was going to do this anyway.
They walked again that night, wandering aimlessly through pine and birch and oak. He told his friend of the interesting time, and his friend told him of his weekend, of his writing, of his thoughts, of his new job at a publishing company in the city. Maybe his book would be published this time, he said. They were both happy at their news, both of them felt like they were moving up in the world. They parted under a full moon, knowing where the years of friendship had emerged from.
He spent the next day writing, finishing his assignment days ahead of the deadline and sending it off to his editor straightaway. After the exultant reply, he curled up in a windowframe, breaking in his fourth leatherbound journal of that year. So many new thoughts, he felt that his creativity flowed. The phone rang at 3, and it was her. The day dallied into evening, and they got dinner at a small local place about two blocks down the road from the café they had met at the other day. Apparently her parents didn’t know. Apparently they shouldn’t, he joked. The dinner was good, and he hugged her goodnight at 9. He had good feelings about this, and wrote in bed until 11. Sleep was peaceful, and his dreams were filled with symbolism and bizarre images of clowns and daffodils.
He walked out again the next day, walking into the office for the morning, hearing another word of praise from his editor, and walking out at 2 after checking his mail. The day was as lazy as he, stratus pawing the cold sky as those below them pawed for scarves and mittens. As night fell, the sheet slowing the world cold was pulled taut, and he went walking again. The two friends walked through the woods, knowing their minds were full of secrets. He didn’t mention dinner. It seemed to fall out of the topics of worldly wisdom and worldly ignorance.
He wrote again. Curled within a ball of warmth from multitudinous sources, he passed the rest of the week in his own shell of creative zeal, not even knowing why. Friday emerged from the sepia-toned monotonies of the other weekdays, and he walked again. She was out by the café, cheeks streaked with tears. She was right not to tell her parents, apparently, as their independent decision was one involving being kept in the house for a number of weeks. And, she ran. So she couldn’t go back. He offered her a place to stay, though as they walked back together, it became increasingly unclear why he did that.
They woke up glowing, as he wasted no time, though neither did she. The intensity of feeling was there, though it was becoming less sure what this intensity was. They lay in bed together most of the morning, getting up to dine naked on old English muffins toasted with peanut butter. After lunch, they lay back down in his bed, making magnificent love until dinner, when they finally left the house and went out for sandwiches and beer. This happenstance confused him greatly, even as it revealed itself to be the source of his zeal. They went back home, falling asleep in his bed, cradling each other through the night.
The weekend continued in this way. He went walking Sunday night, slipping out after she had fallen asleep. They met in the park again, though his friend was feeling down today. Something wrong at home, from what he said. He was still happy with his successes, and had even met someone at the bar Saturday. But this cloud seemed to hold on him. These things happen, he knew. They had their brand of empathy, and he could still feel happy for his friend, even through his cloud. The cloud would lift. They always did.
She was not in school, it being that deep in winter. She talked of Christmas lights and holiday cheer, reminding him it was Friday. He would never have cared otherwise, but this was new and special, and he had to do something. She had haunts, places her parents did not know, and she spent time there, when she was not with him. He decided to get her a small gift, knowing he did not even put up a tree. It was a cute little bear, and he knew it was perfect. He ran home to wrap and hide it, and she was home a little later. They ate at home and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The next night he went walking. His friend was distraught now. There was something very wrong at home. Someone was not going to be home for Christmas. He understood, offered him prayers for health and safety. They knew each other. It was their peculiar brand of empathy. They felt close because they held each other up. He hoped against hope neither of them would have grief in their holidays.
Friday came quickly, and they exchanged gifts under the light of a small menorah, mixing faiths like rum and coke. She squealed at the bear, and he adored the cable-knit sweater, which she confessed to having bought, as if it made a difference. They embraced, and slept in each others arms that night.
He walked on Christmas day. Walked with her, feeling at home with his cable-knit sweater and ironic tastes in music. They walked to his own sacred place, the park, together as he slowly started to open up his world. She knew the park, had taken walks here when she was young. So had he. It seemed so right. They felt brilliantly intimate, this illicit love that would not last, at least not in this way, past new years. It didn’t matter. She said this couldn’t have been a better Christmas, not at home, not anywhere.
He walked again that night, his friend near tears. It had not been a good Christmas for him. His parents were at home, distressed and fearful. His relatives were praying for them. It seemed that his sister was missing over Christmas.
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