Last Tuesday I was sitting on this same seat in the park. It was a crisp clear autumn day, like today. I had come here to escape the routine of gossip-mongering at work.
I noticed his dog, first. A fluffy animal the size of a small pony. I’m scared of dogs, and I was too busy keeping an eye on what it was doing to get a good look at the owner. His voice caught my attention. Gentle and rather deep with a hint of laughter in it. He apologised as he fixed a lead to the dog’s collar and instructed it to sit. It sat.
I mumbled something I can’t now recall, and he promptly sat on the end of the seat between the dog and myself and held out his hand. A calloused hand, with broad squared off fingers, warm and slightly rough to the touch. I looked up at his face. He was smiling. Slightly flushed, possibly because of the cold, his eyes looked rather amused. Probably I smiled back, it would have been difficult not to.
His hair was windswept, dark and slightly curling onto his collar. A touch of grey here and there was a surprise, as he didn’t appear to be much older than late twenties. I must have been staring without realising because he laughed and said I would know him next time. I expect I blushed, but hoped if I did that he would attribute that to the cold.
I asked him what sort of dog it was, just to be polite, and to take his attention off my face, which seemed to be occupying him. He shrugged and grinned. Some sort of mongrel, partly St. Bernard was the response. I nodded.
He was wearing a long coat of dark brown smooth waterproofed fabric that looked like it had seen a lot of wet weather. His black pants and boots were fairly well worn, too. Maybe because he was dog walking and didn’t want to get decent clothes messed up. Maybe because he just didn’t worry about such things, or maybe because he couldn’t afford better.
He mentioned seeing me in the park before. I wondered if he was a stalker, and my expression must have reflected my dismay because he was quick to put me at ease. He explained that he brought his dog here every day at around lunchtime, to get a break from writing. I asked what he was writing, thinking that he was possibly a student or something. He mentioned a series of novels and laughed at the incredulity I felt which was obviously writ large on my face.
“Yes, it really is me.” He leaned closer. “But, please, don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded again, lost for words. I thought to myself he would consider me a complete fool, but he seemed in no hurry to get on with walking the dog, which was now lying down with its massive head resting on its paws.
I noticed his dog, first. A fluffy animal the size of a small pony. I’m scared of dogs, and I was too busy keeping an eye on what it was doing to get a good look at the owner. His voice caught my attention. Gentle and rather deep with a hint of laughter in it. He apologised as he fixed a lead to the dog’s collar and instructed it to sit. It sat.
I mumbled something I can’t now recall, and he promptly sat on the end of the seat between the dog and myself and held out his hand. A calloused hand, with broad squared off fingers, warm and slightly rough to the touch. I looked up at his face. He was smiling. Slightly flushed, possibly because of the cold, his eyes looked rather amused. Probably I smiled back, it would have been difficult not to.
His hair was windswept, dark and slightly curling onto his collar. A touch of grey here and there was a surprise, as he didn’t appear to be much older than late twenties. I must have been staring without realising because he laughed and said I would know him next time. I expect I blushed, but hoped if I did that he would attribute that to the cold.
I asked him what sort of dog it was, just to be polite, and to take his attention off my face, which seemed to be occupying him. He shrugged and grinned. Some sort of mongrel, partly St. Bernard was the response. I nodded.
He was wearing a long coat of dark brown smooth waterproofed fabric that looked like it had seen a lot of wet weather. His black pants and boots were fairly well worn, too. Maybe because he was dog walking and didn’t want to get decent clothes messed up. Maybe because he just didn’t worry about such things, or maybe because he couldn’t afford better.
He mentioned seeing me in the park before. I wondered if he was a stalker, and my expression must have reflected my dismay because he was quick to put me at ease. He explained that he brought his dog here every day at around lunchtime, to get a break from writing. I asked what he was writing, thinking that he was possibly a student or something. He mentioned a series of novels and laughed at the incredulity I felt which was obviously writ large on my face.
“Yes, it really is me.” He leaned closer. “But, please, don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded again, lost for words. I thought to myself he would consider me a complete fool, but he seemed in no hurry to get on with walking the dog, which was now lying down with its massive head resting on its paws.
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