Prologue

2015

There is always a story.

We often walk through streets with our heads held low, and not out of fear, but focused in a virtual world. It is in these moments that we fail to see the stories being told around us. The man over on the bench sits in the park every day to watch a woman walk her dog. He will almost be indiscreet about it, his eyes staring her down. And I often thought it was pervasiveness, but I soon realized that it was longing from the loneliness in the way he walked home. Not many people often greeted him, he didn't appear to be something special. Another lonely man in a very big world which doesn't have time to stop and look. Nonetheless greet a fellow person, who we have all been taught to fear as a stranger.

Another time, I was in the supermarket shopping for supplies to feed the party at the office. And I saw the woman the man at the park always watched. Ironically, she was laughing along with a handsome young man who had a hand around her waist whispering things into her ear. And as always, the man from the park wasn't far away. On the end of the aisle I currently stood in, was the man peeking around the corner watching with a lost look in his eyes. It appeared that he had not considered she might be taken. I watched with such interest in how the man would react, glancing through my bangs as I put another item in the cart. He just remained rooted to the spot, unmoving and sad. The woman moved on past the register to the world outside, flitting a very beautiful smile while she was at it, and the man sighed before returning to his shopping.

Not three days later, did my curiosity finally take a hold when my boss walked in to inform me of a slot in our column that needed to be filled. Of course, as a new intern, I jumped immediately at this opportunity. Alerting her that I had an idea already and couldn't wait to get to work. She nodded in assent and left me to my thoughts. It was at this moment that I decided to question the man from the park. He had a story and I was curious enough to ask.

I waited every morning for the woman to walk through. I had come to the conclusion that wherever she was, he would be as well. Yet, a week went by with no sign of him anywhere. I had truly become disheartened at this, realizing that this story would not be told in this week's column. But here I was again, sitting at the park with a coffee in hand idly staring at the people walking by. It was then that I finally saw the man seated on the bench with a paper in front of his nose.

"Sir?" I asked, standing before him. He glanced over the paper and I was struck by the odd color of his eyes. They were blue, but appeared to shine gold when the sun hit them.

"What?" His voice was rude, but held such an eloquence about it a shiver ran up my spine. This may be a bit more difficult than I had previously believed.

"I'm a journalist and I couldn't help but notice how often you in the park each day."

"I haven't returned for a week."

I cleared my throat, "Ah, yes. I'm well aware."

He arched an eyebrow at that, "you've been watching for me?"

I gave him a stiff nod and he folded up his paper. He thought for a moment, before letting out a laugh and gesturing for me to sit. "Well, I can't let all of that hard work go to waste, now can I?"

"I would prefer not, sir."

He waved me off, "please, refer to me as Erik."

I made a noise of approval and pulled my recorder out of my bag. He seemed put off by it for a moment, twisting his hands nervously in his lap.

"You don't have to answer anything you don't want." I assured him. He seemed to relax at that. His shoulder's losing their tension. "Hello, Erik. My name is Blaise and a journalist. Can you give me some information about where you live and how old you are?"

"Ooh, right. Let's see, I live over in Manhattan right now. I own a bar out there," His eyes flickered down to the scratching of my pen on a notepad. "Ah, I'm 43 years-old."

"And why do you sit in the park all day?" I paused my writing to watch his reaction. His lips smiled but his eyes lost their spark before he glanced away from me and into the path.

"For Christine," He whispered out. I had hoped the recorder heard him, I hadn't hoped to ask him again for he seemed to be trembling with the word. "I watch for Christine."

"I see, and who is Christine?" I looked at him confused as he began laughing.

"Oh, my dear boy. That more accurate question is 'who isn't she?'" He dragged his fingers over his face before leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Christine was and is the love of my life."

I stared at him long and hard. His shoulders sagged in defeat and he dropped his forehead into his palm. "Can you tell me about her?"

He didn't respond for a few minutes, and I kept silent. And before I knew it, he began to speak the most heart-breaking tale I would ever hear. And this, dear readers, is where our story truly begins.