She was there when I walked into the shop that afternoon. Standing there, the other side of the road under the broken lamppost, in a white dress. A bouquet of bright and colorful flowers in her hand and a black duffle bag next to her feet.
Her head hung low, hiding herself behind her own dark brown curls. She was a bride. She looked beautiful, even though I didn’t saw her face. I just knew that she was beautiful.
6 hours later when I walked out of the store, she was still there. Standing in the same place, under the lamppost, an arm wrapped around herself as she stood there. The flowers in hand and the bag in the road.
I was curious. She was standing in the same place for the last six hours or maybe more. What had happen? Was she waiting for someone?
I crossed the road. It was already dark and the number of vehicles has lessened.
“Are you alright?”
She winced, she literally winches. And then she breathes. Her shoulder rises and the flowers falls from her hand. In a second she was on the ground, in her knees. A sob broke out of her as if my question had her brought back to reality. A reality she doesn’t want to be in.
I was on my knees too, holding her as she cries. I didn’t know her but I knew she was heartbroken. I knew how that feels. I knew those cries.
“Shh” I stroked her hair but the cries didn’t die that easily. And I didn’t stop her.
People passed us, watching and wondering but none questioned. And we sat on the sidewalk, her clinging to my shirt like a lifeline and me comforting her.
And then she stopped, her breathing hard but in control. She pushes me away from her realizing our sitting arrangement.
“I’m sorry” her voice small and broken.
I shrugged, standing up. “You are not a New Yorker until you broke in front of a stranger.”
She smiled. And it was the first time I saw her face. It was flushed, with tear lines and her eyes tale green eyes blood shot.
She bears the mark of heartbroken person.
I stretched my hand at her. “Zack”
“Anya” she whispered.