She sat on the same
bench every evening, the
one facing the pond where
ducks gathered at dusk.
Today, a man occupied
the far end, scrolling
his phone. She didn't
look at him, just at
the water, where the
last light fractured into
gold coins.
He used to sit there,
right beside her, feeding
bread to the ducks that
no longer came. The
silence between them had
been comfortable then.
Now the silence was hers
alone, and it pressed
against her ribs like a
held breath.
The man left, and she
shifted to the center of
the bench, leaving room
for a ghost. She pulled
her coat tighter, though
the evening was warm.
He'd say, 'Don't save
me a seat, I'm always
here.'
The ducks finally
circled, expectant, but
she had no bread. Only
the fading sky, and the
shape of an absence she
couldn't fill.