Each day I walked through the leaves, coffee in hand, thinking of who I was and what I meant. And each day there she was too. She sat on that bench like a bird perched on a branch—my soft and silent raven. I always laughed a little when I saw her because she always wore this black beret, a trench coat, and sunglasses that made her devoid of any emotion. All I mean is that she stood out. She stood out, yet no one seemed to notice her except me. Like some sort of modern-day siren, she beckoned for me to go up to her and breathe in the smell of her cigarette-coated words, but I couldn’t. I was just some simpleton, you know. I mean, I got up for work every day, got out at five, went for my coffee, and walked home. She was too cool, too glamorous for a guy like me. Each day I walked past her, and each day I wanted to talk to her—ask her why she sat there and what she was saying inside that head of hers. My father had always criticized me for “not having any guts,” and he was right. I couldn’t even say “Good afternoon” to the cashier at the café I frequented daily. Talking was difficult for me; making eye contact was difficult for me; being charismatic was difficult for me. That’s why I wrote. What I didn’t have the courage to say, I’d write. I’d go home and work on my stories. If you could read my writing, you wouldn’t think of me as being such a mouse. Oh, and I wrote about her too.

At some point, the Earth was no longer spitting leaves at me, just cold gusts of wind. I finally got so upset with myself that I let my doubts go and got the nerve to sit on the bench. I purposely got there before she did, and I waited for her imminent arrival. I think I almost barfed a bit when I saw her coming. God, I was embarrassed. So, there she is, standing right in front of me with her hair blowing in the breeze, and she goes: “You’re that guy from across the street, right?” If my mouth wasn’t dry enough, I think my tongue practically shriveled up. Here I am thinking I was being inconspicuous all this time, but now she probably thinks I’m some stalker. “W-what do you mean?” I responded nervously. “Oh, it’s just that around this time I look over at that street, and you’re there.” “I swear it’s you,” she says. So, this was the point where I asked myself if I should lie for my own sake or be honest with this stranger. Except she wasn’t a stranger (at least not to me), and I felt obligated to her. “Listen, I’m so sorry if I seem like a creep, but I’ve just always wanted to talk to you and always held back.” Then she removed her black sunglasses and looked me in the eyes for the first time and said, “Talk?” “To me?” She let out a soft laugh. “I’m not sure what you want from me, but we’re both here now.” And we talked. I mean, we had a conversation. I told her all about my stories, and she told me she was a painter—I remember thinking that was so like her. 

After that encounter, I never saw her sitting on that bench anymore. Like a raven, she came and went. I’m not exactly sure where she went, but I paid it no mind. Her departure relieved me; it awoke something within me. Mice can only be killed by a stimulus, and mine was a bird.