The Bench by Olivia Salter | Literary Fiction | Short Fiction

 

The Bench

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,180

Miss Bright’s favorite bench was taken.

It wasn’t just any bench. It was her bench, the one shaded by the sycamore tree, perfectly positioned with a view of the fountain and the bustling paths of the park.

Now it was occupied by a young couple, oblivious to the invisible claim Miss Bright had staked on that spot. They leaned into each other, their laughter soft but insistent, like the hum of bees on a summer afternoon.

She stood a few feet away, gripping her handbag with both hands, her usual composure faltering. This bench wasn’t just a place to sit; it was part of her ritual, her anchor in the rhythm of her Sundays. Losing it left her adrift.

With a barely audible sigh, she turned and walked further into the park, her polished loafers crunching against the gravel path.

***

She finally found another bench near the carousel. It wasn’t the same. Here, the screaming of children spun endlessly like the carousel itself. The metallic jingles of its music mingled with the high-pitched cries of excitement and the occasional frustrated wail of a child denied a second ride.

Miss Bright sat anyway, smoothing her wool coat and adjusting the scarf around her neck. Her fingers brushed the brooch she always wore, a silver filigree piece her late mother had given her decades ago. It anchored her, a small piece of stability in an afternoon that already felt off.

From her new vantage point, she watched the park as she always did. The young mother chasing her toddler, her face a mixture of love and exasperation. The jogger in neon leggings, her pace slowing as she checked her phone. The saxophonist, eyes closed, pouring his soul into a tune Miss Bright couldn’t name but felt deeply.

And then, a group of teenagers sprawled on the grass caught her attention. Their laughter was sharp, their movements lazy but purposeful.

“She’s here every week,” said a boy in a gray hoodie, his voice just loud enough to reach her ears.

The girl beside him snorted. “What’s she even doing? Just sitting there like some park weirdo.”

Miss Bright stiffened. She wasn’t weird. She was observing. There was a difference.

Still, their words clung to her like a sharp music note.

***

She adjusted her scarf, a quick, nervous motion, as if the fabric could shield her from their judgment.

The park had always been her sanctuary. It was where she came to escape the suffocating silence of her apartment, to surround herself with life without having to participate in it. She had always believed that watching others was enough.

Lately, though, cracks had begun to form in that belief. The bench wasn’t just a spot to sit—it was a stage from which she observed the world. Without it, she felt exposed, unsure of her role.

The saxophonist shifted into a slower tune, his notes mournful, as if echoing her thoughts. She glanced toward the fountain, where an elderly man in a worn tweed coat fed pigeons. She recognized him—he was always there, scattering crumbs with the same slow, deliberate movements.

Today, he caught her eye. He nodded.

Miss Bright hesitated, then quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her handbag. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest. What if he tried to talk to her?

***

The carousel’s music screeched to a halt, drawing her attention. A boy, no older than six, ran past her, his red balloon bobbing behind him. He tripped, sprawling onto the gravel with a sharp cry.

“Tommy!” A woman in a beige trench coat rushed to him, her face tight with concern. She knelt, brushing dirt from his knees while he clutched the balloon string, tears streaking his cheeks.

“I told you to slow down,” the woman said, her voice a mix of frustration and worry.

Miss Bright felt an inexplicable urge to help. She reached into her handbag, fingers brushing against a folded handkerchief. But the thought froze in her mind. What if the woman didn’t want her help? What if she thought her interfering?

Instead, she stayed rooted to the bench, watching as the mother consoled her son. Their bond felt like something tangible, a connection Miss Bright had never known.

The woman glanced up, her eyes brushing over Miss Bright without recognition, and then turned back to her child.

The sharp pang in Miss Bright’s chest was unexpected.

***

Miss Bright couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood abruptly, smoothing her coat as if to erase the discomfort that clung to her. She walked toward the fountain, each step purposeful but unsteady, as though she were propelling herself forward without a clear destination.

“Leaving already?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see the man in the tweed coat watching her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression was kind but curious.

“I—” she began, her voice faltering. She wasn’t used to being addressed here.

“I see you here every Sunday,” he said, nodding toward the bench she had just vacated. “You always seem… thoughtful.”

“I like to watch,” she said, clutching her handbag tighter. “The people. The park.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s a good place for that. Mind some company?”

***

They sat together on the bench by the fountain, the pigeons scattering around their feet. The late afternoon sun bathed the park in gold, softening the edges of everything.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with possibilities.

“You know,” he said after a while, tossing a few crumbs to the pigeons, “I come here for the same reason. Watching. Listening.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “It’s easier here. Out there”—he gestured vaguely toward the city skyline—“it all feels too fast, too loud. Here, it slows down. People slow down.”

She found herself nodding. “I used to teach. English. But since I retired…” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “It’s been quiet.”

“Quiet can be heavy,” he said simply.

They talked then—about small things. The pigeons. The saxophonist’s music. The way the park changed with the seasons.

His name was Mr. Lowry, and he had been coming to the park for years, ever since his wife passed.

***

As the sun dipped below the trees, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Mr. Lowry stood. “Well, Miss Bright,” he said, brushing crumbs from his coat, “it’s been a pleasure. Same time next week?”

She looked at him, startled by the question. She wasn’t used to being invited. But there was something about his voice, his presence, that felt like an open door.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like that.”

He smiled, tipping his hat slightly before walking away.

Miss Bright stayed on the bench for a while longer, watching the last of the children leave the carousel and the saxophonist pack his instrument.

The park felt different now. Not just a stage, but a part of her story.

For the first time in years, she looked forward to next Sunday.