Moments: Mismatched
The man and woman huddle together in the one shady corner of the park bench, her crossed legs resting in his lap. They pay no mind to anything but their conversation, their voices drowned out by the stifling heat and ambient noise of the park. But on closer inspection, it becomes clear that her feet are planted on the ground.
The two of them don’t fit together.
They sit close to each other, angled towards each other, but folded in on themselves. Crossed limbs and jutting joints provide an uncertain barrier within their intimacy. He speaks with his hands, but he stops his gestures just short of his elbows’ full range of motion. She gestures primarily with her head. At one point, she leans forward slightly and speaks so vigorously that her chin seems to vibrate.
But for the most part, they stay contained in their own worlds. A few minutes into their conversation, they call a mutual acquaintance. She dials and puts the call on speaker, holding the phone between them. He leans down and speaks directly into the phone. As he does, his legs wiggle in a pale flash, and the black fedora balanced on his knee threatens to fall. She stares straight ahead as he speaks into the phone.
When the call finishes, he straightens up, and they resume their conversation. Sunlight breaks momentarily into their shady sanctuary, glinting off of the earrings they both wear, as well as the low blond bun of her hair. They become more engrossed in what they’re saying. He gets more excited, when suddenly, he exclaims, “Exactly!” Caught up in the moment, he gently slaps her thigh to punctuate his words. The sound of contact is muffled by the still, hot air and her denim capris. She yelps softly in response, and he quickly retreats in on himself.
A few minutes later, a fellow park goer approaches them to ask if they have a bottle opener. The man gets up and walks over, leaving the woman alone on the bench. She stares intently at him, her hands folded tightly over the small crossbody bag resting in her lap. He returns to her, but their spell is broken. He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his black shorts, shifting his weight as he does. He’s facing forwards now, away from her. He holds the phone close to his face.
She stays angled towards him, continuing to speak. At first, he alternates between his phone screen and their conversation, but eventually, the device in his hand wins. He becomes absorbed. She pulls out her own phone, but it stays in her lap. She clutches it tightly, like another brick in their precarious wall. She doesn’t take her eyes off of his face.
Eventually, they both put their phones away and get up to leave. They walk close to one another, much too close for another person to pass through, but still not touching. They form a fence: linked but not solid. Talking once more, they stroll off in the same manner they sat.
