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Days passed before Oliver saw the woman again. He wished he knew her name. Calling her “the woman” made her seem sleazy as if she were a cheating partner, and Oliver was certain she wasn’t. Deep in thought, like she pondered intricacies of life, she sat on a park bench in Linwood Park. She seemed unaware of people and events around her though nothing much was happening to catch anyone’s attention.
Oliver debated. Should he or shouldn’t he? He stepped toward her, stopped, and then cautiously headed her way. The park bench was long enough for four people, six if the bodies scrunched together. He had every right to sit beside her, keeping a respectable distance, of course. He couldn’t let on he was interested. Men had to be sly with the opposite sex. They couldn’t appear eager; women scared easily.
Nonchalantly, Oliver sat and watched her out of the corner of his eye, but she seemed oblivious to his presence. Hardly daring to breathe, he remained still for several minutes. He was so close he could smell two scents—a flowery perfume and another aroma that could only be her distinctive woman odour.
He had to make a motion, something to catch her attention. He coughed, a little too loudly perhaps. A little too fake. She looked his way. Dark hair fell across her face, covering her left eye. He had never seen her that close. Since she looked at him, he felt justified in scrutinizing her face. He smiled. She stared.
“Pleasant afternoon,” Oliver said.
Nothing.
How rude! Taken aback, Oliver wasn’t sure what to do. Should he look the other way and ignore her? But if he did that, he’d defeat the purpose of sitting by her. Should he continue making mundane conversation? Scenarios flashed before him in the space of seconds. He chose the latter.
“You come here often?”
Still no response.
“I’m Oliver. You are?”
She peered at him. He noticed her striking eyes, a darker blue than he had remembered, almost navy. Her thick eyelashes flickered. Was she going to speak? But no, she sighed and looked the opposite way. The sheen of her hair cascading down her back faced him. He longed to reach out to fondle it, to capture several wayward hairs that didn’t mesh with the others, strands so thick he could count each one. He raised his arm, stretched out his hand, and then just as quickly dropped it to his lap. Mustn’t touch.
“Want to go for a coffee?” His words blurted out, surprising even himself.
She moved, just a little, enough that he knew she was aware he had spoken. Oliver waited, hardly daring to believe she might say yes.The woman stood.
“Come with me,” she said. She motioned for him to follow.
He had never heard her voice and was surprised at the rasping thick timbre. He had expected a mellow tone, one matching her delicate body. Yet when he examined her again, he wondered if she were delicate at all. Looks could be deceiving, especially hidden behind flowing garb. Her long skirt ended just at her ankles, but he couldn’t discern anything out of the ordinary. Women with thick legs turned him off, but he was positive hers tapered nicely from her knees to her ankles.
Not believing his good fortune, he followed her across the gravelled path to Ryder Street, a quiet neighbourhood bordering the east side of the park. Neither said a word. For the first time in his life, Oliver was tongue-tied. Even had he a talkative sort, he wouldn’t have marred the silence with worthless chitter. He wished the woman had spoken more, though, and wished he knew where they were headed. He supposed she might be headed to a coffee shop the next street over.
But she turned right instead of left.
“Where are we going?” Oliver had to speak, had to know. “And you never told me your name yet, either.”
“Carmella,” she said. “My name’s Carmella.”
“Pretty name.” Oliver had never known anyone by that name. He rather liked how it sounded, how the name rolled on his tongue like soft, gooey caramel between fingers on a hot summer’s day.
“Carmella,” he repeated. He hoped she’d stick to him like the candy he envisioned.
They continued down Kramer Street after they turned off Devonport. Quarry Avenue would be the next right. He hadn’t realized until then that they headed toward the duplex he had followed her to previously.
She glanced at him before beckoning him with her little finger. “Come.”
Oliver followed her up the bricked path.
“You own this?” he asked.
Carmella ignored his question. She simply opened the door, motioned for him to enter, and then closed the door behind him.
Oliver’s eyes darted about the small front room. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway. The dining room joined the living room, he saw once he walked into the living room. The furnishings surprised him. Old, antique even, probably valuable.
“I thought we were going for coffee, not that I’m complaining.”
Carmella glanced at him before sitting down. “I don’t want coffee.”
“Sorry. I invited you for coffee, you accepted. Or so I thought.”
“Why have you been following me is what I want to know.”
Oliver blushed. When he caught his breath, he said, “Follow you? I’m not following you.”
“Maybe not today, but you were last week, and the week before. Everywhere I turn, you are there. Leering at me.”
“No…not me. I…just…think you’re attractive. Just wanted to meet you.”
“I’m not interested in you, not that way.”
“But…” Oliver didn’t know what else to say. “But….”
He waited for her to say or do something. The lull unnerved him. Oliver felt he should leave but didn’t know how without appearing rude. But did he care if he was perceived to be rude?
This story is poignant. I haven’t read anything like this in a long time.