the bench

It was there in that peaceful garden that Stan smiled at me.That was the beginning.

   The many flowers in this pocket garden droop under the weight of the humid air.It is June in Paris and although this garden usually brings me peace, today I hardly notice the scent of the roses, the beautiful colors painted on rose petals.The bench, where I often write in my journal, offers no comfort.

    I sit on the edge of the bench, hands fidgeting with paper, checking my watch.We were to meet at 4 P.M. and it is now ten minutes past.What if he doesn't come?The question, so heavy, takes root in my mind.My heart starts to beat faster. I check my watch and sigh. Has it all come to this? Will I walk out of this place alone?Just then, from the corner of my eye, I perceive movement.Two people are coming slowly through the garden gate past the fountain and onto the path to the bench.One of them is Stan.

 They are holding hands and I notice the sun dazzling the blond of his hair.He is thin and has on a blue polo shirt, beige shorts and sandals. I can see his sad blue eyes from where I sit.They are walking so slowly, I doubt they will ever reach me.Finally, they are close enough for me to see that there is no smile in Stan's eyes, or on his lips.I feel a cold dread in my chest and tears form.I wait.

  The young woman leans over and whispers in Stan's ear and puts her briefcase on the ground.He starts to walk, watching, watching, his eyes never leaving my face and slowly I see it, a slight curve of the mouth, some glimmer of light in the eyes. He reaches out and takes my shaking hand in his.I swoop him up, twirling us both to the sound of his giggles.I have become a mother at last.