Lunch Bench
There’s a bench near The Met where, when the weather allows, I have my lunch most Tuesdays. The dark green paint is chipped on the swirly metal arms, worn down and faded on the seat—a project so far down the city’s to-do list, I might as well pack a can of pink paint in my sack lunch and make my bench a personal art project.
I am always surprisingly lucky to find my bench empty at the exact time I am able to take my break. Today was no exception. But as I sat down and pulled my sandwich out of my navy blue lunchbox, I realized that lying to my right was a single red, rain soaked rose—the simple almost cliché kind of rose you imagine has been bought from a street vendor.
After the early morning rain, the sun had come out. By the time I reached it the bench was dry from its rays; the soggy rose a stark contrast to the enjoyable fall weather. I had left my latest library novel at the office, content to people watch today. Now here I was, stories already waiting for me on my lunch bench.
He is beside himself. Seeing her for the first time in months. She’s been away, immersed in the study of what she loves. She is practical but soft. He is a romantic through and through. A year ago they had been set up on a blind date by a friend from his work (her cousin) and had found a deep interest in each others’ eyes that first night.
This summer, every mile and every day have only found him more in love. She’s been busy, not always able to talk, but he has found comfort for the last three months knowing October 11th was coming.
He wakes up giddy. As soon as they open, he calls the restaurant to confirm their reservation, the same cafe they had met at nine months earlier. He tries to not bombard her with texts, knowing she is still getting over jet lag, instead busying himself with grocery shopping and a few other errands nearby.
She sleeps in as much as she can, glad to wake up to her familiar window, cream colored curtains pulled apart by mid-morning sun. She’s home and glad to be. But her chest is tight, and she wishes she could fall back asleep. She makes coffee; then realizes she can’t put off laundry any longer. She sorts through her luggage, making sure to pull what clothes she needs for tonight into the hamper. Still in her robe, she carries the basket down to the basement to begin washing away a lovely summer.
Her summer was full. Of herself, of the earth, of stimulating easy conversation, of food that stirred her. She hadn’t met anyone else—but she had met someone else. Being away from her city, her bed, her window...and him, had done something in her, introduced her to someone else.
While he had rejoiced when her plane landed, she had held in a sob as the plane taxied towards home. She wanted to hate what she had found. To come back and realize that what she had here was better. But the last few days had not shaken away the euphoria of this new self, and the gripping ache to make sure she didn’t slip away again was only growing.
Even though the restaurant is only a ten minute walk away, an hour before their reservation he hurries out the door. There is a bench in Central Park where they meet anytime they are doing something on the Upper East Side, easier than finding each other at a crowded subway stop or busy street corner. Thirty minutes early, he is too antsy to sit. He walks over to Turtle Pond and makes himself sit and watch the fish.
When he can’t sit any longer he turns back towards their meeting spot. Looking at his watch he realizes he has only managed to kill ten minutes. It’s then he remembers that at the corner of 79th and East there’s a flower cart he had always wanted to stop at. The occasion had just never been right. But tonight was the occasion for everything. Practically skipping to the cart, he is a mirror copy of Buddy the Elf, “I’m in love! I’m in love! And I don’t care who knows it!”
She’s moving too fast, and suddenly there’s mascara smeared on her cheek. She’s been trying to relax, a soft playlist on in the background, half empty wine glass on the dresser. Her freshly laundered clothes have dried in time, and after a lot of back and forth she decides not to wear his favorite shirt—or the perfume. She’s gone over it a thousand times in her head, still frantically texting her best friends as she puts on her blush lipstick and pulls her hair into a loose bun.
She loves him. She loves his laugh and his kindness. His passion and his humility. The way they can talk for hours about the architecture and history of the city they both love. She thinks the way he always splits his dessert in two without being asked is her new found love language. She missed him this summer. Wishes he could have been there for all of the desserts she’d had. Wishes he could have seen the architecture she was surrounded by everyday. Would that have changed things?
As she exits the station and climbs the stairs she repeats the plan to herself, “After dinner. Give him the dinner. After dinner.” She walks towards the bench trying to take in the places she has not seen all summer, places she loves. But she is still thousands of miles away.
She sees him first. Thankful for a moment to take him in. “After dinner, after dinner, after dinner.” She is only a few feet away from him before he turns and notices her.
“Bri!” It’s all he can get out before he starts to tear up. He pulls her close, pushing her hair behind her right ear, looking at her so softly she almost begins to cry too. He’s talking so fast, grinning and waving his hands around as he tells her how excited he is and about where they are going for dinner, as if she didn’t know, and about the weather and the mayoral race, and she is remembering why she loves him.
“After dinner, just give him dinner.”
But then she glances down at the bench and she sees a half dozen green stems, rich blooms atop them. She recognizes the butcher paper from just across the way. And suddenly it’s too much. The flowers are too much. She sinks down at the far end of the bench, as far away from the flowers as she can get. Her sudden movement startles him out of his rambling.
“Are you ok? I bought you these flowers! Made sure all of your favorites were there!” He passes the bouquet to her with the smile of a school boy who has just aced a test.
Her head is in her hand and she is crying now, tears dripping onto the brown paper. She can see a red rose poking over the wrapping and imagines him at the stall taking way too long, customers piling up behind him as he picks out the perfect rose. “No, not that one. That one! Wait, maybe that one!”
“What is it, love? Do you feel sick? Is the jetlag too bad? We don’t have to go to dinner. We can get takeout and go back to my place.” He places his hand on her shoulder, sitting down beside her, “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
This only makes her cry harder. She hands the bouquet back to him. He’s confused, but holds it anyway.
“I love you. I love you so much. And I missed you and want so much to want to be back here, back with you, but I can’t find it.”
“I’m confused. Don’t cry. I love you too. Everything is going to be ok. What can’t you find?”
“I can’t find my desire. For you, for us. I thought once I got back here everything would feel normal again. I thought I was just tired and missing the magic of this summer...I wanted to tell you in person.”
His fingers begin fumbling with the flowers. Picking at them, crumbling bits of the brown paper.
Is he angry? Hurt? Lost? What is happening? How can this be happening? He wants to throw the flowers at her, yell and make a scene. Let her know that what she is doing is horrible. He wanted tonight to be like a movie, but someone has picked the wrong genre. He pulls the rose from the paper and stares at it. He can’t bring himself to look at her. Her eyes will make it real. This can’t be real.
She waits. She’s always been good with silence. She stares back and forth between her lap and the quickly disintegrating bouquet on his. It feels like cruel real time imagery of what is happening. Something so beautiful spoiled in what felt, what feels, like such a short time. She tries to place her hand on top of his on top of the flowers but he pulls away. “That’s fair,” she thinks.
After a few more minutes of silence, he looks up into her eyes, “I love you, and I have to go.” He haphazardly gathers what’s left of the bouquet and walks swiftly away from her. She leans back into the bench, eyes closed, thinking about the reservation they’ve just abandoned. The man she’s just abandoned. She stands, cinching her jacket tighter. With a final glance down she realizes that in his hurried pain he’s left the rose behind.
The Met is their favorite place. An unlikely pair, she, a middle school art teacher, only found in flowy skirts and chunky jewellery. Her, an attorney, who prefers neutrals with a soft lace here or there.
The wonderful thing about The Met is you are never done discovering. By the time you finish you start again with fresh eyes, noticing different pieces and intricacies each visit. Last year they had invested in a membership, realizing it was more affordable than their mounting pile of single ticket stubs.
Sarah’s school had a four day weekend. A mini-fall break that had mostly consisted of planning for Christmas bulletin boards and their end of semester sculpture unit. Karen had taken the day off, so they could enjoy the extra long weekend together.
Breakfast at a new spot down the street from their apartment was first on the agenda. They had sat on the patio so they could take Frank, their three year old rescue pup. After French toast and eggs florentine, they stopped back by the apartment to drop Frank off, making sure his water bowl was filled and his favorite blanket fluffed just right on the couch. With the slyness Karen had had from childhood, she also slipped a small box into the pocket of her blazer, a rich maroon with a causal unstructured cut.
Their time at the museum was the perfect kind of normal. They snaked through the corridors with a familiarity, sometimes holding hands, sometimes splitting off to look at their favorite pieces. Museums are the perfect place for being quiet together.
After several hours they looked at each other, the knowing without speaking that comes when you’ve spent more days together than apart. They were hungry and before long Frank would be too. As they walked toward the exit, Barbara’s familiar face came into view. “My babies!” she shouted across The Great Hall. Everyone had to be quiet in the museum besides Barbara.
She grabbed their hands with the warmth of a mother, squeezing them affectionately. Then, much to Sarah’s confusion, Barbara pulled a multicolored bouquet of flowers wrapped loosely with a light pink ribbon from behind the desk. Sarah looked back and forth between Barbara and Karen, obviously the only one not in on this surprise.
“Thanks, Barbara,” Karen said, as if this was something that happened to them each time they visited.
“Surprise,” she said with her gentle smile as she handed Sarah the bouquet.
Sarah started, “I..what, what are these for?”
Karen in her always understated way just smiled, grabbed her hand and said, “Long way home?”
Still confused, Sarah nodded slowly, curiosity in her eyes.
“Bye, babies! You be safe.”
They circled the museum, the sound of the familiar fountains a perfect orchestration for the sunset. Sarah smelled the flowers over and over again, pointing out every color and shape within the bouquet almost as if she was speaking to the whole park and not just to Karen. The curved sidewalk had begun to cut through still green grass when Karen said, “Hold on I need to tie my shoe.”
Karen knew it was a ridiculous way to go about this. She had racked her brain for any less cheesy idea and had come up short. So she knelt down, fiddled with her securely tied shoelaces, and stuck her hand in her pocket. All the while Sarah was pleasantly content to shove her face one again into her surprise bouquet eyes dazzling over every petal.
“Hey,” Karen said from the ground. Sarah looked down, dropping the bouquet to her waist. The next few moments played out just as they were supposed to. Sarah was surprised. Karen got through her practiced words of affection. Sarah said “yes!” with her whole body, unable to contain her excitement. She tossed the bouquet onto the bench to hug Karen until she was lifted off the ground, flowy skirt twirling for the whole world to see. There were tears and more hugs, strangers looking on, holding their hands to their chests in a moment of having their mundane day broken up with magic.
They sat down on the bench. Took pictures. Stared at the ring as if waiting for it to come to life.
And then when they had both caught their breaths and the tears had at least partially receded, they remembered Frank! Frank who would not care what life changing moment had just occurred. It was past his dinner, and he would not be happy. Karen put the ring box back into her pocket. Sarah grabbed the bouquet and between her excited toss and this now hurried snatch, a rose slipped from beneath the silk tie and fell back to the lunch bench.