Holding Hands

Sara held her hand and they walked down the street together. I watched them as I sat on a hard city bench, limply clutching a pastry covered in sticky white frosting. Their steps were tense, fragile. Sara’s grip was too tight. 

She’d been crying. I could tell. I wanted her to be free, free of her statue face and Sara’s hand. 

Sara pulled her into a cafe. I saw her grimace. Coffee was too fresh a smell. She wasn’t ready. 

I hated Sara’s hand, Sara’s steps, Sara’s coffee. I hated Sara. I wanted to shed my bench and my greasy pastry, to frolick through fields of flowers. Filled with a vapid, meaningless ache, I remembered the stochastic rhythm of our steps. We were always ready. 

We let our secrets fall to the wet grass like cherry blossoms in a windstorm. Why hadn’t Sara kissed her yet. Sweaty hands are nothing like fresh dew. I tossed my pastry into the garage and brushed the crumbs from my jeans.

Lying in the park, as intimate as soft rain. Naked bodies half glimpsed through the waves. We were always wet.  

Why was she suppressing her tears? I hated that more than anything, more than myself. 

They emerged from the cafe. She was smiling. Sara was smiling. Sara was pretty when she smiled. I looked down at my phone. I didn’t want them to see my smile. It wouldn’t have been very pretty.