The park bench was worn smooth by years of strangers sitting side by side, the wood still holding the faint warmth of the afternoon sun even as the sky softened into pale orange. She’d brought a woven blanket to spread over her lap, its edges frayed from use, and a paper bag of lemon drops—her favorite—tucked beside her. He’d joined her ten minutes earlier, a man she’d known since they were children, his hair now as white as the clouds drifting overhead, his hands gnarled with arthritis but still steady when he held his walking cane. They’d spent most of the time in comfortable silence, watching a squirrel dart up a maple tree and a pair of ducks glide across the small pond nearby, but now he’d started talking—softly, as if sharing a secret, his voice thin with age and the weight of the story he was telling.
She’d always had trouble hearing out of her right ear, a consequence of a childhood illness she rarely mentioned, and today the wind was picking up, carrying the sound of distant traffic and children’s shouts across the park. So when he paused, his lips pressed into a thin line as he searched for the right words, she leaned closer. It was a slow, deliberate movement—her shoulders hunching slightly, her head tilting to the side, the scent of lavender from her hair oil drifting toward him. She could feel the fabric of his woolen coat brush against her arm, could see the faint lines around his eyes that deepened when he spoke. As she got near enough to catch the murmur of his voice, her breath—warm from the chamomile tea she’d drunk earlier—fanned across his ear. She didn’t notice it at first, too focused on trying to make out his words about the old neighborhood they’d grown up in, but then she saw him stiffen slightly, his jaw relaxing as if he’d been holding it tight without realizing.
His words trailed off, and for a second, there was only the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant quack of a duck. She pulled back just a little, her cheeks flushing faintly when she realized how close she’d gotten—close enough to count the gray hairs on his temple, close enough to see the way his eyes had softened when her breath touched his ear. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quieter than intended. “I can never hear very well when the wind’s blowing.” He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and reached out to tap her hand lightly—once, twice, a gesture they’d used as kids when they didn’t have words to say what they meant. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice a little louder now, but still gentle. “It’s nice… to have someone lean in to listen.” She smiled back, leaning in again—not just to hear his words this time, but to feel the quiet warmth of being close to someone who’d known her for a lifetime. When he resumed his story, his voice steadier now, she didn’t miss a single word—and neither of them mentioned the way her breath had lingered, soft and warm, against his ear.