The Field

It was the fifth time in as many weeks he had gone to that field. It was also the fifth time in as many weeks he wondered why. It wasn’t an extraordinary field. Wasn’t one whose beauty demanded the showing of children and friends. Though that’s not to say the field was ugly, it was still very pretty, just not extraordinarily so. It was mostly grass, with a few little clusters of white clovers dusting the field every now and then. He’d been there before, before five weeks ago, when he was younger. Middle school, maybe high school, he thought, though he couldn’t remember.

He didn’t do much, at the field. Mostly just found a bench under a tree and watched the grass sway in the wind, the clouds crawl across the sky. He’d sometimes watch families play through the grass, parents dutifully playing tag or chase with their kids, crying triumphantly over the children’s joy filled squeals when they were caught and swung into the air. He’d watch owners playing fetch with their dogs, excitedly calling their four legged companion’s name to get them to come back. He’d sometimes see couples, walking along the trail, hand in hand, or lying in the grass or on a blanket and looking at the clouds. He didn’t watch any of these things for long, not only because it was creepy but also because he simply didn’t find them very interesting.

After a while of people watching, he eventually just sat back and fell into thought. Never about anything in particular. Usually about how work was going or about all the foolish, terrible decisions he’d made to lead him to that moment right then. That business proposal his roommate’d offered him and he turned down that eventually became a multi-billion dollar business. That cute girl who always happened to sit next to him during class that he’d been to dense to think to ask out. Getting drunk at an office party and insulting the CEO’s wife, loudly, in front of the CEO.

But none of that explained why he would come to this park. Sit at this bench. Think these thoughts. Too tired or too bored to care, he left.

And so it went the sixth week, sitting at the same bench and thinking the same thoughts.

Then, one day, on the seventh week, he remembered. This was where he’d been when he’d met her. In eighth, no, ninth grade. They’d known each other before, they went to the same school, in the same grade, but they’d never really talked. He was an acquaintance to her, and she an acquaintance to him. When the rain had cancelled the train home and he’d had to walk it. He’d turned down the alley, gone through the houses, and had turned up there. The sun breaking through the clouds, the drizzle persisting, solidifying the rays of sunlight into pillars of illuminated gold. It was there he’d slipped in a puddle and scattered his papers. There he’d desperately scrambled to salvage his ruined homework. There he’d accidentally headbutted her as they both reached for the same one on the ground. You’d think this was where he’d fall in love with her. After all, this is the ideal romance movie situation. But no. He was much to daft, dense for that. After they’d finished gathering them up, he’d muttered a “thanks,” and jogged home to try to save what little he could.

Then, the next day, the rain had cancelled the train, again, and he had to walk home, again. Luckily, he thought to bring his umbrella. He took the same route. Took the same turn down the same alley, went past the same houses. And… stopped. The girl, from the day before, was stuck under an awning, to avoid the rain. He’d thought to just pretend he hadn’t seen her. To just walk past and go. And this is what he did, at first. But for some reason, he turned, and went back. He found her outside the same house, at the same corner, under the same awning. Then he gave her his umbrella, saying “or yesterday,” and turning around before she could give a response.

This went on for several more days, even after the rain stopped. And then weeks. And then months. He’d given up going on any pretense after the second week, choosing to walk just to get a chance at seeing her again. They’d exchanged a few words every now and then, but, looking back, his utter lack of social skills probably killed any chance at an actual conversation before it had a chance to start. Yet still, he continued. And still, she would go the same path, despite his awkwardness. He’d hoped one day to do something more with her. Have an actual conversation, exchange phone numbers, see each other somewhere other than the field. Yet he’d pushed it off. “I’ll do it tomorrow, for sure”-s lasted weeks, months, even a year, until, one day, she left. He overheard from her friends that she had moved to the neighboring state. Something to do with her father’s job. That was the last time he’d gone walked home, the last time he’d turned down that one alley, past those few houses. That was the last time he had visited that field.

And then he was back on the bench. Back to hearing children squeal and pet owners laugh. Back to the smell of grass and dirt. Back to a life forged from his mistakes and regrets. Back to a world without her. Back to the field.