LUCES

It all started when I sat on the bench.

It wasn’t an unusual day. The sky was the same decadent shade of sherbet and ice as always after dinner—a glimmering, figure-friendly, visual dessert—and a group of incredibly chatty girls from the college on the next block was standing at the corner on my right, giddily giggling while waiting for the cyclist who always rode by at this time to whizz past so they could saunter across the street before good, old bus 63B slowly chugged on up and blocked their way, two minutes late per usual. The elderly man Ernesto with the fruit stand directly across me finished packing ten minutes ago, and as soon as he hopped on that steel beast now creeping to a stop, his side of the street would be empty ‘til dawn.

So, nothing unusual at all. Just another city twilight—another too-short break before settling into the long hours of work ahead.

I leaned back into the bench’s metal slats and looked through the darkening air at the calm, drifting river. It was green in the waning light—the good, bluish kind that made you want to dive right in without taking off your clothes. Having such gorgeous water in the middle of such a bustling place was always a relief, and dusk only amplified its calming power, even more softly illuminating its gentle, rhythmic waves as they soothingly pulsed in the pale, pinkish light.

But I was seemingly the only one who cared. To everyone else, sitting and watching idle beauty was nothing but a bore. A waste of time. A testimony to your unintelligence.

If only they knew what they were missing…

Normally while here, I’d consider all I had to do tonight, but for some reason, on this particular evening, I just didn’t feel like thinking. So, instead of planning, I decided to spend my break doing absolutely nothing. It was an incredibly foreign concept to me, just sitting there burning time, so it was absolutely scary. I mean, what would happen when I started again? Would I remember where I left off? Would I figure out what to do after? Would I eventually get everything done? I had no clue, and it was terrifying.

But looking back, I needed that terror, for my life had grown so monotone, I barely even knew I was alive—so repetitive and boring, that not planning my schedule was somehow my worst fear.

Talk about pathetic…

Before that night, I was trapped in a daydream—or, a nightmare, rather—where my legs were constantly moving, but I was always stuck in place. Where the clock was ever-ticking but the time never changing. It just wasn’t right, and it took that one sunset of breaking the ordinary to finally figure it out.

 The abnormalities all began about seven seconds after I leaned back. I closed my eyes, hoping to slip into blissful nothingness, but slow footsteps softly nearing quickly broke my serenity. They were coming from the corner on the right, starting by the prison gates on the other side of the cross street and gradually angling toward me. They were even and calm, like the individual was simply enjoying a post-meal stroll, soaking in as much of the fading sun as possible before the artificial lights replaced it.

 Yeah… Sure…

As if that would ever happen.

My curiosity wanted to pique, but I squelched it, for knowing my location, that person definitely wasn’t out enjoying the world. They were just a slow walker, and they’d simply pass, leaving me alone to continue my journey to solace.

 However, as they drew nearer, their walking further slowed—if that was even possible. Every step became more and more lackadaisical—more and more drawn out—until, finally, they stopped entirely.

I grew uncomfortable. I knew they were standing either right in front of me or right beside me, probably thinking I was asleep, and I worried. What were they doing? Why’d they stop here? Would they hurt me? If so, why hadn’t they yet? And why would they even want to? What in the world did I have that they could possibly want?

Just as I was about to open my eyes and ask, I heard a swift swish of fabric and a zipper clink against metal. Whoever it was sat beside me.

 This was when I opened my eyes, then turned to look. It was a man in his early thirties, clean-shaven and well-dressed in an expensive-looking, black overcoat with a deep-navy suit beneath. A black, wool fedora rested gingerly in his hands—hands as smooth as his baby-soft chin, save for the cracked, slightly bruised, third knuckle on his right pinky. He stared straight ahead, down the river, and out past the last city streets, joy glittering in the tired, green eyes resting sleepily above his pushed-up, smiling cheeks. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, his lower lip twitching as he held back a laugh.

“Sorry to wake you,” he suddenly said, never pulling his gaze from the water. “I just wanted to sit and watch for a bit. After all, this is the best seat in the house.”

 “Oh, that’s alright,” I quietly replied, unsure despite his friendly tone. “I wasn’t sleeping, so you’re fine. And yeah. I guess this is a pretty good spot.”

 Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was the very best view for the sunset, since here, the river was completely unobstructed—save for the lone truck occasionally driven by the maintenance man for the apartment across the way. But that was it, which was amazing, for everywhere else was littered with people and poles and carts and stands. But here? Here was always clear.

“Actually, yeah. It is,” I settled, this time sure myself.

“You know, it’s good to be outside,” the man continued as he toiled with the brim of his hat, his eyes still glued to the river. “Fresh air does a person well. I really wish people would go out more.”

“You’re right again,” I agreed, joining him in staring at the sparkling water. “No one ever takes the time, and it’s such a shame.”

“Such a shame,” he reiterated, bobbing his head forward to emphasize his words. “You know… I know some people who haven’t been out in years, and they don’t even care. To them, seeing the world from a window is just as good as anything else, but in my opinion… Look what they’re missing! It’s beautiful!”

He gestured both hands toward the river, still clutching his fedora.

“Locked inside, you never experience this.”

I didn’t know what it was about this guy, but something made me want to chat, even despite the odd way we met. So, I scooched a little forward, then faced him.

“I know people like that, too. They just sit in the office all day, wasting away in their silly, rolling chairs—only getting up to eat or have a drink. And when they leave for the night, they don’t even look around. Not at the birds in the sky or the moon starting to show. They just stare straight ahead, or straight down, as if concrete and phone screens were somehow beautiful. But if they only took a second to look up…”

I was getting excited. Nature was my guilty pleasure—guilty because no one ever talked about it. In the city, with all the rich, erudite prudes, it was irrelevant. Pointless. Barbaric. The wealthy city-dwellers paid their dues—or, at least, their ancestors did. So, now, they wanted to escape that life—the life of nature that only existed for the poor in the country. According to the city folk, discussing nature—home to all the “inane” and “less-fortunate”—simply showed a lack of class and missing poise yourself. It didn’t matter if you weren’t from there and simply found it pretty; for them, nature was always uncouth, so it was always ignored.

But not for me. I knew better than that.

“Ah… I wish I could just show them…” the man wistfully confessed as he leaned on his elbows, nearly talking to himself.

“Yeah,” I bitterly scoffed, now sullen. “But how could anyone do that?”

“Now,” he said, wagging his fedora my way, “That is the question.”

He still hadn’t looked from the river, which was odd. I never saw anyone so intent in staring at it, and skeptical, I returned to my original position, then continued, also still a little curious.

“Do you think that question has an answer?”

“Hah!” he sneered loudly, clearly voicing his thoughts. “No. Or at least not yet.”

I nodded, feeling exactly the same.

“But you do think it’s possible?”

“Maybe,” he optimistically expounded. “Or maybe not.”

He took a moment to think, furrowing his brow as he did, and when he finally found the answer, he rapidly nodded, showing that, this time, he was sure.

“Actually, it is possible. Just not in this lifetime.”

That earned a laugh from me. Again, he was absolutely right. No one now would ever be convinced to drop their preconceived notions of only primitive souls dwelling in the outskirts. No, it would take something drastic—like a full-blown apocalypse forcing all to live with the land—in order to convince them of anything else. And even that probably wouldn’t work…

“You’re in love.”

“Excuse me?”

The man shifted on the bench, matching my posture but also crossing his right leg. He repeated his statement, but this time, he emphasized the subject—as if that was what I didn’t understand.

“You, my friend, are in love.”

“What? How do you know that?”

I was astounded by his accuracy, but I was also somewhat annoyed. How in the world could he have guessed? And what did it have to do with anything we were discussing?

“I can just tell. You show all the signs.”

“Signs?” I pressed, still dumbfounded. “How can you see the signs if you haven’t even looked at my face?”

“Ah,” he began, smiling, seemingly amused by my offense. “I don’t need to look at your face.”

“Why not?”

“My peripheral vision is astounding.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, it couldn’t have been anything but true. Then, he laughed, still looking at the river.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“I bet…”

“Then, you’d be a millionaire—if the pot was big enough. Look,” he continued, his voice gaining a slightly paternal tone, “I’ve been in love, too. That’s all. Because of that, the way you move, the way you sound, the things you say—they just show me you’re in love. Because I’ve been there. I can’t help but notice.”

That sort of made sense…

“Alright,” I accepted, trusting this stranger once more. “But it doesn’t seem your periphery gave it away. Sounds more like your experience.”

“Guess you’re right.”

He nodded slowly, pondering. But then, he corrected himself.

“Actually, it’s both.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So, how similar do you think we are?”

“Oh, we’re not similar!” His eyes widened, and he leaned back even more. “Everyone in love just acts the same. Guys, girls, dogs, rats—we’re all complete, optimistic, bubbly fools from the second it happens until the second it ends. Each and every one of us. Make no mistake about it, if you see someone smiling cheek to cheek for absolutely no reason—someone full of hope even on the darkest day—chances are, they’re in love. We’re all that way.”

“Huh…”

That was something I never noticed. Was he right yet again? I didn’t know. I mean, sure, there were certainly days with Judy where I was angry, down, and depressed, and some of them were even caused by her. But no matter what occurred, I still always felt deep in my soul that nothing could tear us apart. Even when the days were rough and she was infuriating, she was still the greatest thing, and just as Ma used to tell Dad when he got upset, if it’s the best thing in the world that’s making you mad, you’ve clearly got it pretty good.

Wait…

Was that the optimism thing?

“Damn…”

“You see it now?”

“Yeah,” I reluctantly admitted, then faced him again. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Always get the answer.”

He chuckled softly.

“I don’t always get the answer.”

He paused, smiling and shaking his head

“No… I actually rarely get the answer, so instead, I just say what I see.”

“Well, what you see is right.”

“Hah! Well, thanks,” he replied, genuinely pleased. “You don’t know how much that means.”

“Oh. Well… Sure.”

At that, we fell into silence. It was a good silence, though—the comfortable kind that often happens between old friends. However, despite being comfortable, it was still odd. It already felt like we knew each other for years—like we were simply taking a moment to enjoy the refreshment of each other’s company—but in reality, it was barely five minutes. How could I already trust him so much?

He finally spoke again.

“How old are you, by the way? You look a lot younger than me.”

“Oh. Why, 26.”

“Ah,” he sighed, shifting yet again, his eyes still on the river. “That’s your problem.”

“What?”

“Look,” he started, his paternal tone returning. “You’re young, and you say you’re in love. But listen.”

He finally turned away from the beauty ahead and looked me dead in the eyes.

“Please. I beg you not to fall in love—or at least not yet.”

As he spoke, he laid his left hand lightly on my shoulder, trying hard to stop his voice from cracking in panic.

“Things happen fast, but you gotta be patient. You need to wait and see if she’s actually the one. You—”

He nearly choked on the word.

“You don’t want to waste your life sticking by someone who isn’t truly good, and when you’re this young, you just can’t know. Well, actually, you never know, to be totally honest.”

He paused to breathe, momentarily breaking eye contact.

“So, just… Don’t do it. Don’t be dumb enough to fall in love, because you never know what’ll happen.”

As he finished, his voice lowered, trailing off in some strange, somber finality that I never heard before. It was one of regretted mistakes—of remorse over promises lost—and I could instantly tell he was living brokenhearted. It didn’t sound like he’d recover, and that, in turn, broke my heart.

“Okay,” I answered softly, unsure of what else to say.

I wanted to probe—to ask more and discover his story—but I just couldn’t. He was hurting—worse than anyone I ever met—and it was written all over his face now, and all inside his deep-green eyes. There was a pain in him like no other, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Or at least not yet.

He quickly looked back at the river.

“Sorry,” he suddenly finished, a rough quietness in his throat. “I just wanted to warn you.”

His sincerity was chilling. I exhaled, looked left, and tried making myself speak, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what it was that held me back, but I simply couldn’t.

“Hey,” he added after another moment, adjusting his posture and clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He was looking at the sky now. The sun was almost set.

“Oh,” I managed to say, even though it sounded more like a cough, so I cleared my throat, too. “No, you’re fine. Totally fine. I’m not uncomfortable at all. It’s just, uh, some food for thought, I guess.”

He turned and looked at me again, this time glancing my whole body over.

“You’re too nice for your own good.”

“Oh.”

This man was full of surprises…

“Sorry?”

Again, he laughed at my uncertainty.

“Don’t be. It was just an observation. Being too nice is a good thing.”

He paused, nodding.

“It’s just also a shame because people take advantage of it.”

“Ah,” I commented, understanding his point. “You’re right there.”

“That’s why this world is so awful. All the kind people get taken advantage of by all the awful ones until, eventually, the nice ones are awful, too.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it.”

“But isn’t it true? You know—”

Suddenly, he stopped, leaned forward, and looked down the road—off to the right. Reflexively, I looked, too, and an old, city bus was sluggishly approaching—the 68A, heading for Arlington.

“Shoot. I’m sorry, but it looks like that philosophical monologue will have to wait. My ride’s here. Take it easy, will ya? And think about that girl of yours. Do you really love her? What would you do for her? Do you think you’d ever hurt her? Even if by accident?”

“What—?”

But he cut me off.

“Save it for later, when you’re bored at your cube.”

He jogged up the sidewalk, and when the bus slowed and opened its doors, he turned and waved, then hopped on. As it came to speed and passed, I saw him sitting in the middle row, right next to the window closest me. He looked and winked, then held up a sheet of notebook paper with big, black, scribbled letters.

30 secs, Shell.

Then, the bus was gone. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“What?”

I collapsed back into the bench, not understanding what just happened. Who the hell was that guy? And where was he going? And how on earth did he know my name? And how could he just leave me like that, with all these questions? And thirty seconds? Until what? And what about Judy? Did I love her? Was this guy nuts?

“What?”

There was suddenly so much that I didn’t know, I was agitated. What a way to ruin my break! With absolutely no way I could relax now, I decided to call it quits and head back inside. It was bound to be a busy night, anyway, and with me not planning my schedule, I’d need the extra time.

I stood, hooked a right, and started toward the newsroom, thoroughly flustered. However, about five seconds later, the prison siren suddenly sounded, clumsily joining the rhythmic tempo of my brown loafer heels clicking against the cement, and barely out of the street onto the adjacent sidewalk, I slowed to a stop.

Wait…

I turned and stared at the towering, gray prison and its endlessly flashing emergency lights, recalling that man’s appearance. Stature. Voice. Eyes. Those eyes… Especially how they barely looked into mine… Weren’t they just like…?

No…

Realizing what just happened, I ran. I had to get to my desk… I had to write this down… The courts and prisons were my beat—for seven years now—and while his hair was no longer blonde and his horribly unkempt beard was gone, that… That…

That was definitely Oliver Atkins.