Old Men On The Bench
Her anger hits before she even stops running.
A stare like a touch, a smile that feels like a trap.
Two old men, one park bench, one woman who refuses to just let it slide.
She stands over him, chest heaving, every muscle tight with rage, demanding to know why he thinks her body is his entertainment.
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he looks up with soft eyes and tells her she reminds him of his late
wife, how she used to run this same path, same bright shoes, same determined stride.
His voice trembles just enough.
The air shifts. Her shoulders drop.
She apologizes for snapping, touched by the image of a love that never quite left this bench.
She kisses his cheek, a quick, tender gesture, then jogs away lighter, almost grateful for the encounter.
The moment hangs there—until he turns to his friend, eyes gleaming, and murmurs, “Three–nil.”
The tenderness dissolves, revealing something colder:
a rehearsed story, a private scoreboard, and a kindness that was never kindness at all.
