Twenty Years of Walking Away

      “Is that it then?” she asked.

      “That’s it. Nothing more to say. See you around, Sara,” Francesco said.

      She blew on her hands for a moment and then shoved them into the pockets of her pea coat. Her steel blue eyes met his. They lingered on him. It was a searching look, one filled with despair and the slightest hint of hope.

     His eyes turned away. He turned around and started walking. He felt the pinch of his toes inside his loafers as he walked. He passed stores full of winter coats, people laughing as they walked past him, and he could smell the scent of chocolate chip cookies wafting on the air from a cart near the corner. 

     Sometimes he felt like that walk had never ended. Twenty years of Francesco walking away from her. He’d convinced himself that it was the right thing to do. When there were no words left, when you had gone through everything, and you knew there was no more to it, you walked away. That’s what you did. 

     But if you simply walked away, why did he always return to the memory? Why was he still walking? The same corner, the same winter, the same day, every year.

     The first year, he thought he might spot her. He thought that maybe he could admit he was wrong and they would hold gloved hands, buy a cookie from the cart and split it down the middle. The second year, he still held out hope, noticing subtle changes in the winter coats that adorned the store windows. The third year, he spotted a woman in a pea coat. He had run to tap her on the shoulder but when he got close enough, he saw that the woman had her hair tied up in a bun with a silver bobby pin. It wasn’t Sara. He had brushed past the woman with slight embarrassment, hoping she wouldn’t think too much of it. The fourth year, he almost gave up. He had a cold anyway but he thought of how much he would hate himself if he missed her. He had wandered, coughing into his elbow for hours. She wasn’t there. The fifth year, the cart had become a truck with an expanded menu of cookies. Francesco only ever smelled chocolate chip coming from it. 

     He had tried to reach out to her. Her phone number had changed. Someone new lived in her apartment. Her email kept bouncing back to him with unable to send messages. They stared at him like accusations. He had his share of relationships, mostly short, with the occasional glimmer of commitment that never quite stuck. He never remembered walking away from those women, only from Sara.

     The sixth year, he brought flowers with him. He thought if he had them, he could give them to her if he saw her, and if not, he could give them to a little girl and make her day. He saw a six year old girl in a red coat, clutching a chocolate chip cookie in one hand, holding her mother’s in the other. The girl was thrilled to have flowers and a cookie on the same day. The seventh year, he walked to the corner from the other side. Maybe it was just direction that made the difference. He wasn’t sure why he kept doing it. The eighth year, his sister was visiting the city. In a pretense of showing her the sights, Francesco made sure to walk by the corner on the same day. His sister asked him if he wanted a cookie. He said no and waited for her to come back. She bought Francesco one anyway. He didn’t eat it. The ninth year, it was snowing. He bought himself a new pea coat and went back out to the corner. He pretended for a moment that he was a tourist, acting as if he was somehow lost in the big city. It didn’t help and it didn’t stop the memory from returning. The tenth year, the truck was gone and there was a bakery there in its place. Francesco didn’t go inside. Sara still wasn’t there. It still smelled like chocolate chip cookies.

     Gray started to invade his hair. His job prospects only became better as time went on. He had so much but no Sara. He was getting tired of looking for her but something in him kept him returning to the corner. That kiss that she had planted on him the first time they went on a date, light like a feather, her head moving in like a bird. It was the sweetest kiss he had ever had. 

     The eleventh year, he had a work meeting. He made sure to schedule it at the restaurant nearest the corner. His partners wanted to go to the bakery across the way for dessert. Jim had a slice of cake at the restaurant instead. The twelfth year, Francesco stood on the corner for almost an hour. No one noticed he was there. He noticed that Sara wasn’t. The thirteenth year, he nearly gave up. He brought a picture with him, just in case she had changed her hair or her face had rounded out in all that time. Francesco’s sure had. The fourteenth year, the bakery had repainted the exterior. There was a chocolate chip cookie with little hands and feet and googly eyes. The chips were arranged in a smile. Francesco didn’t stay long. He had stopped hoping for Sara and started coming back from habit. The fifteenth year, he wanted to buy a coat but the coat shop had become a video game store.

     He stopped questioning why he kept doing it. He started to think of it as his annual tradition, one that he held for himself and no one else. Like a sad Christmas card to send himself, just for kicks. He didn’t stop doing it though.

     The sixteenth year he heard a joke that made him laugh, but he forgot it almost instantly. The seventeenth year pea coats were back in style and twice he thought he saw her. He was wrong both times. The eighteenth year he realized how old he felt. His legs ached in the cold now. He had to wrap a scarf around his face. He could still smell the cookies through the scarf. The nineteenth year, Francesco was on a date. He booked a table for two at the same restaurant from years before, the one that looked out on the corner. He hated himself for doing it. The twentieth year he was single again. When he got to the corner he stood. He thought about her eyes. They were steel blue and they had held a hint of hope in them. 

     This was going to be the last year he did this. No more regrets. He couldn’t change the past. He’d done all he could to find her. It was time to move on. He went to the bakery to buy a cookie.

     Sara was behind the counter. She wore a pink apron, her hair was tied in a bun with a pink bobby pin holding it in place.

     Francesco closed his eyes and reopened them. It was Sara. Her hair had a streak of gray cutting into the blonde hair but her eyes were still steel blue.

     “Francesco?”

     He nodded.

     “It’s been so long. I’ve got so much to tell you,” she said.

     She told him how after he left, she had followed him for a minute but decided to go to the cookie cart to make herself feel better instead. The man selling at the cart was named Jordan. That’s what she named their first son. The business had been good, growing just a little each year. Soon they had enough for a truck, then a bakery. They’d remodeled it once. 

     Francesco couldn’t think of much to say so he just told her how his business had grown as well.

     “You know, I have a view of the corner from here. It’s funny but I think I’ve seen you standing out there,” she said.

     “I do. Sometimes.” He blew on his hands and put them in his pea coat. 

     “I wanted to come out and talk to you but it was always so busy here. And you told me there was nothing more to say. I hope you’ll come back.” She handed him a cookie. It was chocolate chip. When Francesco tried to pay she wouldn’t let him. He took his cookie and walked away. He never ate it. He just kept walking.