The Park

House of Heart

Intrigued by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, and expensive attaché, I follow him along the park path. Sitting down on a bench by the pond he opens his brief case and pulls out an apple. He motions me sit beside him and offers me the apple. I take it though I’m not hungry, resisting the urge to arrange his unkempt hair and run my fingers over his unshaven chin, his eyes, the color of fine whiskey, look through mine and into my well hidden soul. He says he hasn’t worked in a while and spends most of his afternoons by the water watching the swans. Feeling as though I am eavesdropping , I stand, say good bye and lie, I have to go, I am late for an appointment. He asks me to come back again. I nod yes with no intention of returning.

That night I wake in a…

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