Only with dogs and children and sometimes a woman weeping on a bus station bench, hands folded across her face like a veil.
The stranger passing can only bring himself to stand beside her, allow his hand to settle on her shoulder, fingertips touching, then lifting, then lighting poised, muscles taut for flight at the first ripple.
Only in a public place: soldiers too sober to notice a plain woman on a bench. Widows on pensions, touring America, passes clutched deep in pants’ pockets. College kids lost in travel diaries.
Only the janitor, himself invisible as khaki, sees as he kneels beside the bench to save his back retrieving the paper coffee cup—its handles the halves of a valentine, unfolding wings,
a woman rising in a man’s overcoat, wiping her eyes with a wadded hankie and laughing at nothing . . . nothing at all.
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