I take her hand and squeeze it. “I’m glad you came by. I’d miss you if you didn’t.”
As Marla and I chat, other people begin to approach us and ask for sandwiches. I recognize a few of them--Jerry and Lisa, a young couple who fell on hard times; Mark, a disabled veteran; and Patty, a friend of Marla’s. They all accept the sandwiches gratefully and fill me in on how they’re doing. It’s heartbreaking, sometimes, to hear their stories, and especially difficult to learn how the system is failing them, or how they’re not getting the support that they need.
“This is my first meal in about two days,” Mark says as he’s about to leave.
Without hesitating, I offer him a second sandwich and push a water bottle into his hands. “Here’s another. I made plenty, don’t worry! We have enough.”
His smile is pure sunshine. “Thanks, doll. Appreciate it.”
Finally, only two sandwiches remain, and almost everyone has left. Marla takes my hand again in her cracked, gnarled one.
“See you in two weeks?” she asks.
I grin. “Of course. Take care of yourself until then, okay?”
“I’ll do my damndest,” she says. “Thank you for doing this, Laurelin. It means more than you know.”
To my surprise, her words touch my heart and my eyes begin filling with tears. “I know. I wish I could do more though.”
Marla smiles. “I know you do, and that’s what makes you a good person.”
With that, she gives my hand one last squeeze and then strolls away, stopping at a nearby flower to inhale its perfume. I wish more people appreciated my friends because how many folks really stop to enjoy their lives? How many people pause to take pleasure in something as simple as a flower? They ignore people like Marla, but the truth is that Marla could teach them a thing or two.
My friend disappears with one last wave, and I brush a tear away with the back of my hand. Then, I take a deep breath and sit down on a bench to collect my thoughts. The park is still full of people, and the midday sun is at its warmest. I’m getting hot so I take off my flannel and tie around my waist so I’m just in an old white (or, more accurately, yellowish-white) tank top. Sweat beads on my brow and I probably look like a mess. It’s fine though. No one’s looking.
Then, I peek into the duffel bag and see that I still have two water bottles left, so I take one out and twist the cap off. The water is lukewarm now, but still refreshing as I take a sip.
I could go home, but there are still some sandwiches left and I’m a little hungry. Besides, even though it’s hot, it’s still such a beautiful day. I would feel guilty if I just sat in my apartment when I could be enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
My stomach rumbles loudly. I peer at the last two sandwiches. Maybe I could eat one, and then save the last one to give out a little later? Am I being a bad person I if I eat one of the sandwiches? My hand hesitates as I reach into the bag. After a moment, though, my hunger wins out, and I grab a peanut butter and jelly from the bag. (I gave the ham and cheese sandwiches out first so they wouldn’t spoil.) To make up for my moral failing, maybe I can come back next weekend instead of waiting two weeks. The thought cheers me a little, and I bite hungrily into the sandwich.
As I’m staring off into space, eating my PB&J, a sudden barking near my feet brings me back into reality. I blink and look down. A little terrier, its leash still attached to its collar and dangling behind it, is sniffing my shoes intently.
“Hey buddy,” I say, scratching behind the pup’s ears. “Did you come looking for a sandwich, too?”
Someone suddenly reaches down to grab the leash, then hands it back to a frazzled-looking woman who’s jogged to my bench. “Sorry!” the woman pants, both to me and the stranger. “I thought I had the leash tied up, but I guess it wasn’t as secure as I thought. Did he bite you?”
The stranger laughs, a deep, male rumble. “No, he just chased me as I was jogging, and then decided to make a pit stop here for a snack.”
“Sorry again!” the woman exclaims, and then she and the yappy puppy stroll off, the dog still casting curious looks my way.
My attention, however, is fixed on the mysterious man who has his back to me. He’s wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts and black running shoes, a pair of headphones slung around his neck. Sweat glistens on the defined V of his back, and slicks down his dark hair. Damn, I think. I haven’t even seen his face yet and I already know he’s a 10.