The Man On the Bench.

     He sits.  The man on the bench does.  The man on the bench sits. And observes.  Everyday he sits on his little lonely bench.  And watches the world.  He watches the days huslte by, and weeks as well as months trot on their merry way.  He captures emotions, cringes at lies, smiles at giggles, sighs at displays of affection.
     His breath stuck in his throat as she swiftly passed directly in front of him.  His eyes follow her, and he sucks in as much of her perfumed scent until it fades.  Every step she takes has admirable poise, eagerness in her walk.  He can't tear his eyes from her and is relieved wih her sudden stop at the street corner.  He wishes to catch her nomadic eyes, her searching eyes, she glances around, anticipation in them.  She's waiting.  Waiting for whom?  A man?  His own eyes glow a little dimmer.
     Her feet shuffle slightly as she shifts her weight, tapping her crisp white heels.  She wears a straight, tight balck skirt to mid-thigh, pulled up just to her hips.  Her white cotton top half hidden by an off-white, knee-length trench coat.  He watches her long sinuous black hair blow faintly in the vague breeze, and the acerbic cold barely tint her nose to pink.  Her emerald eyes wane in confidence, sweeping the streets for what they long to feast on.
     Minutes tick by reaching an hour.  Her shoulders droop as it reaches two more.  He wonders what would keep her waiting here so long.
     A gentle tap on her shoulder and a low masculine "Ma'am," surges brief buoyancy back into her brilliant eyes.  But they clear emptier as he simply offers an undersized purple bible.  She graciously waves him off, turning back to her useless street scanning.
     Folding her arms to her chest she watches the sun fall out of the sky.  Water escages her no longer anxious eyes as stars start to sprinkle the swiftly blackening horizon.  The man on the bench still sits, watching her, longer than he ever watches anyone from that weather trodden bench.
     Another hour drifts by and she no longer holds restless wait, but stands in sadness.  No more waiting for what won't come, just attempting to determine why it didn't.
     He watches her stand at the corner for a few minutes more.  She turns back his way and gradually steps past, water lined cheeks and slumping shoulders.  Just as she passes he stands, determined to fill her with the beautiful confidence that was there hours before.  And so he follows her.
     The next day.  Sunday.  The bench is empty.