At Last

The sun is high in the cerulean sky on a perfect spring day. A light breeze tousles my hair as I settle onto one end of a park bench, making sure I leave plenty of room in case another city worker wants a comfortable place to rest during their lunch break.

It’s well after the lunchtime rush – my penchant for late lunches means that I’m more likely to have the seat to myself, but you can never tell.

Opening my container of salad and adjusting my earbuds in my ears, I glance around the park. Well, ‘park’ is a strong word; Gordon Reserve is a small, triangle piece of land in the CBD of Melbourne, within spitting distance of the Victorian Parliament House.

Many of the seats are taken, and tourists crowd around the Stanford Fountain, snapping away with phones and digital cameras for the perfect shot. They shriek and jump away, laughing, as a sudden gust of wind sprays them with a fine mist from the fountain.

Spearing a piece of cucumber with my fork, I watch as an older man crosses the park, wearing a hat and holding a single red rose. He walks around the fountain, once, twice, his eyes scanning the seated lunch-goers and hurriedly walking figures. Checking his wristwatch, he sighs and approaches my bench. I look away quickly, trying to subtly convey that I wasn’t intrigued by his every movement.

I return to my salad and scroll through my phone, checking out random photos on Instagram before sneaking another look at him at the distracted Don Juan.

He perches on the edge of the seat in his charcoal suit, cutting quite the dashing figure for a man of his age. I notice that his suit is subtly pinstriped and the creases are sharp. He rolls the stem of the rose between his fingers, his eyes moving between the various entrances to the park. I follow his gaze and see office workers, some rushing by, others strolling along, making the most of the gorgeous afternoon.

Sighing, he clears his throat.

I look over at him but he’s not paying any attention to me. I watch as he runs a hand over his forehead, then drags it across his eyes, rubbing them wearily. Checking his watch again, he then turns his stare up at the azure expanse overhead and sighs again, more deeply this time.

Placing his hands on his knees, he slowly rises to his feet. Our eyes meet as he reaches down for his hat. Always quick to blush, my cheeks redden a little as he holds my gaze. I’m relieved when he returns my smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips twitching upwards.

“Good afternoon,” he says, as he dons his hat, nodding at me. I smile and nod back, wishing him a good afternoon in return.

He moves away and begins to walk towards the Macarthur Street entrance, but turns back, meeting my eyes. I cock an eyebrow at him quizzically as he lifts the rose and holds it out towards me.

“Here you go, young lady. You should have this.”

Before I can even think to protest or thank him, he hears a voice that makes him stop suddenly.

“Bill, are you giving up on me that easily?”

A graceful older woman stands off to the side from us, a smile playing around her lips. Bill stands up straighter and his face lights up as he takes her in, her smart skirt and blazer combo complementing her slim frame. I watch as Bill moves toward her, holding the rose out for her as he takes her other hand.

“Maggie, I’d thought you’d forgotten me!” he said as they turned and slowly walked away.

“Now, you know better than that…” her voice trailed off as they walked away.

Smiling, I packed up the remnants of my lunch and started back towards work. The strains of Etta James’ At Last swelled as I crossed the road.