12:00
There is a mulberry tree and a park bench. I sit with a flower in my lap and watch as you pretend not to notice me. Some days you sit next to me on the park bench and you inch closer, and we both blush at the chance of meeting again. But here we are on the park bench with the mulberry tree, all because you did notice me.
- Courtney Peppernell
Every day, at precisely 12:00 in the afternoon, you would walk through the lonely park on your lunch break. You held your brown paper bag tightly in your hands as you sat on the park bench, in front of the small fountain, under the flowering mulberry tree. It was spring, so the sun was shining softly through the petals of a nearby cherry tree as you reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon roll.
The bag crinkled happily as you folded it and placed it in your backpack. You brushed the hair out of your eyes, smiling at the soft pink petals floating down and landing gently on the ground. A breeze picked up and the petals danced silently on the ground, forming small, pink world pools as they were swept off the path.
You take a bit of your cinnamon roll, the sugar melting as it touches your tongue. You sit in silence as you watch the little fish swimming, flipping and twirling through the clear water. The air smelled sweet and crisp, the sky a pastel blue.
A sound causes you to pause, you look up, but see no one. The park is empty, as always. But then you hear it again, a quiet sound, carried by the wind. A voice, high and sweet, breaks through the silent afternoon. Crunching footsteps on the gravel announce someone’s arrival as a man walks down the path, singing softly to himself.
His light hair tousles in the wind as he sits on the bench across the fountain. His cheeks are flushed a light pink that contrasts with his pale face. The sun sparkles, illuminating his milky skin as he pulls out a book, humming quietly. You study him curiously, no one has come to this park in years. Well… except you.
You memorize him silently, his light blonde hair to the shape of his dark eyes, the gentle arc of his cheekbones, sharp jawline, to the soft curves of his lush, pink lips.
His eyebrows furrow as he reads, completely immersed in the book. He seems lost in the pages. He smiles, a smile that lights up his beautiful face, his eyes disappearing into his cheeks. You assume he’s smiling at something in the book, but you realize his eyes are focused on you.
Your stomach drops and you quickly look down, staring at your hands as you twist them in your lap, blushing furiously.
You steal a glance back up at the stranger, and your heart falls as he tucks the book back into his bag and stands to his feet. You stare at his back as he walks back down the path, and out of sight. You sigh to yourself as you lean back into the bench and continue eating your cinnamon roll in silence.
