Owner of a Lonely Heart

Our conversation over, you move away from me; and now I feel totally alone.

               The late afternoon spring sunshine filters through the trees as I stand and watch you walk away. Cries of children echo through the park and, momentarily, I find myself wishing that I was still six or seven, secure in an age where my only concept of sadness was a scraped knee or a fallen ice-cream. A cool breeze tugs at my clothing – it’s still not warm enough to be out without a coat, but when I read your text message, I acted like a teenager and slipped out of the house without a second’s thought, wanting only to see your face, hear your voice. I’m paying for my lack of foresight now: I’ll never be able to walk through this park again without a ripple of pain, a spasm of memory. I gaze at your retreating figure and wonder what’s going through your mind, a tiny part of me hoping that you hurt just a little, that the time we spent together meant something to you.

               Maybe I should have been more cautious when I first encountered you. The December sky was filled with a thousand feathery flakes on that fateful afternoon, just over a year ago, when you and I met by chance. Then, just as now, daylight was already fading into dusk: the sun had packed up her belongings for the day and was wending her way home. You were a still statue on your bench, your bright scarf the only splash of colour against the stark, white, snow-covered backdrop. We nodded as I passed and you made some comment about the coldness of the air; we could have struck up a conversation then, but instead we were both of us wrapped in British reserve, much thicker than our overcoats, so I kept on walking, too frozen to want to stand around chatting to a man I didn’t know.

               You were there again a week later as I hurried by. When you smiled at me, it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. I realise now that sounds like a cliché – I’m thirty-seven and I’m talking like a teenager, even if these thoughts are all in my mind. But surely clichés mean something – after all, Romeo courted Juliet with ridiculously extravagant language, comparing her to the sun – ah, now I see where I got that idea from – and she didn’t seem to mind. Where was I? – oh, yes, that’s right: I was remembering how it started, here in this park. Against my better judgement, I stopped and sat down next to you. Even now I remember thinking you attractive – nothing ridiculous like a film star or game show host; your face was pleasant and I felt instinctively that I could trust you. We swapped names and chatted about the weather; and then I noticed you wore a wedding ring and wondered if your wife minded you talking to strange women when you were out without her.

Perhaps I should have walked away at that point and saved myself the heartache, but I think I was already a little in love with you – it’s amazing how quickly intimacy develops between two lonely people. And so, as the seasons changed, I kept on coming here, always to this same spot in the park, meeting you now more by design than by accident; and as the snow melted, so did our shyness with one another, and the benches became our special meeting place. One in particular held unique significance, you said: it was where you and your wife used to sit years ago. I should have realised then, in the way you talked about her, that you would never be able to let go of her; at the least, I should have felt offended that you’d brought me here – to a spot that was originally someone else’s; but I was still fresh with the glow of optimism, thinking that if you and I were here now, then that was enough. I was wrong. Within the wooden slats lurked memories of marriage, recollections of a wife now gone, shadows of happier times. The entire bench was saturated with the woman you loved until cancer stole her away. Wistful thoughts danced in your eyes as you described her to me. I ached at your loss.

                Was I merely fooling myself back then? I wonder now. Or was I duped by Spring and all her promises? Did I misinterpret the buds on the trees as symbols of hope instead of remembering that not all blossom is followed by fruit? It’s easy now to be analytical, to search for retrospective answers; but at the time, I was too starry-eyed to see further than the end of my nose.

Weeks went by and spring slipped into summer, our friendship blossoming like the flower beds in the park around us. Conversation put forth tentative tendrils, wrapping the two of us in a private world. The scent of honeysuckle and jasmine was everywhere that June, its sweet smell masking the stench of death. When, finally, you kissed me, I thought you were beginning to forget. Feeling hopeful, I told myself that you were beginning to heal. I thought I could fill the gap in your heart.

It was only as autumn tugged the leaves from the trees, leaving bare and lifeless branches, that I saw for the first time how empty you were when you thought no one was looking. The smiles you gave me were only surface deep, their veneer as thin as the ice that covered the lake a few months later. Your lips when you kissed me were soft and gentle, but your heart was more frozen than the ground. As one season flowed into another, I noticed how grief had moulded you. A light had gone out inside you when your wife died: one that no amount of effort could rekindle. You were polite, attentive; but I could not compete with a ghost. You heard her whisper on the wind; the rustle of her dress in a swirl of leaves. Even when you gazed into my eyes, I knew you didn’t see me: your heart was elsewhere.

Tears form in my eyes, an unwelcome intrusion. Am I weeping for you or for myself?

It’s been a little over a year since we first met, and exactly twenty-eight minutes since we said goodbye for the last time. I know I will still walk in the park, no longer hoping to see you; ignoring your awkward smile if by chance I happen to arrive just as you are leaving. Summer and winter will probably pass again before I’m ready to let go of you properly: you were an important part of my life for over a year and the stubborn side of my personality still wants to cling onto you – but deep down inside I know I‘ll never be able to tear you away from the past. No matter what I do, what I say, there will never be enough room for me in your heart: it’s still filled with the void your wife left behind.

The daylight is fading fast. I try not to think of it as a metaphor for you and me, but it seems strangely fitting somehow. Maybe, if we’d met for the first time in the morning, things would have been different: the rosy glow of dawn might have made both of us think that this was a new beginning: one that would lead somewhere.

In the near distance, a dog barks. It seems life goes on even when love ends.

I wrap my arms around myself, regretting the absence of a jacket but loath to return to an empty house. Perhaps it’s just as well you never took me up on my offer of a coffee or a meal – it’s bad enough that this park is imbued with so many memories of you without them decorating my kitchen and living room as well. And we never even mentioned my bedroom – almost as if what we had was an exclusively outdoor relationship: okay for kisses on a park bench, or walking hand in hand by the boating lake; but the real romantic stuff – the nights spent in front of a log fire, the intimacy of breakfast in bed together or sharing a bubble bath – that was something you could only ever imagine with her. She was your One; and you weren’t prepared to settle for a sub-standard substitute.

Do I sound bitter? Maybe, but I don’t think anyone would blame me. My mother told me once that marriage is a two-way street, and I think that applies to any relationship. I’ve gone as far as I can on my side of the road; I just wish I’d known before I set off that I was walking into a cul-de-sac.

Twilight creeps in, covering everything in a half-light that would be romantic if I still had someone to share it with. It’s time I was going home. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a cherry tree and watch as a layer of blossom floats to the ground. Before today, it would have made me think of confetti; now it’s just a symbolic shedding of hope.

I gaze into the distance, wondering if you are still somewhere in the park, trying to hold onto the woman you loved, and that’s when I finally realise how painful love can be. One day, in the future, I may learn to love again; but you will always be alone.