A Meeting In The Park Loneliness had driven David into the streets. His small apartment, second-hand furniture, and leaking faucets had begun to seem smaller, older, and noisier. It had been a month since Linda had left him. As he turned down Lake Street and walked toward the park, it started to rain. The rain fell in a murmur, softly brushing its way through the air to the sidewalk. His shoes shuffled along the sidewalk, the only sound except for the whispering of the rain. It was a warm night; the rain felt good. A piece of the moon found its way through the dark clouds, making them lighter. David turned into the park and began to shuffle his way toward the rose-garden. The rain had lightened into a silent spray. He sat down on the bench in front of the roses. Until he sat, his mind had been almost thoughtless; now it wandered. He began speaking softly to himself. "I'm too good for this. That small apartment...leaky pipes and all. I belong on top." "Do you now?" A woman's voice, very soft, but lacking in sympathy, cut in. He turned slightly sideways to see her. His face flushed with embarrassment at being overheard. She was young, eighteen or nineteen, medium in height and slender-framed. Her brunette hair was beautiful. He stood, and she sat next to where he had been sitting. "Sit down," she spoke, demandingly polite, "please." David sat next to her. She continued, her voice flowing as if from a wind instrument. "So you belong on top, do you? On top of what?" David noticed her lips talking for her. She wouldn't have to speak, just mouth the words and she would be understood. His voice was too low when he spoke. "I'm not sure what I should be on top of. I just know..I feel...I should be on top of something..the best, you know." "You're very frank." Her lips were sensuous, David decided. He spoke slowly and tried to mouth his words. "No, not really. I know I'm a somebody. I can feel it. I just haven't been discovered yet." Her face was thin, not too, with high cheekbones. Her nose was perhaps too large or too long; at least it didn't look quite right to him. But her mouth "beautiful." "What's the undiscovered talent?" she asked. "Do you paint?" The rain had picked up again not enough to bother with, but 18 drops were splashing on the sidewalk. "No, I write poetry. I mean, I'm a poet." Her voice trickled up from her throat but still came through her lips. "Oh, that explains the roses, why you sit here." David took this offensively, so he used a defensive tone. "Not all poetry is love and roses. My poems are about God and death and dark skies, like this one, and women with sensuous mouths..." "No, please," her voice seeped into him and soothed massagingly. "I meant that I'd seen you here before." "Have you?" David questioned. "I don't believe I've seen you." "I've been here," she said. It started to rain harder. David looked up; the moon was gone, and the sky was dark again. The wind had unnoticeably begun to blow. It drove the rain into them and caught her hair and blew it down over her eyes. A few hairs from the side swept around her face and brushed her lips, accenting the sensuality. "It's beginning to rain harder," David commented absently, returning to his thinking out loud. "Yes," her lips confirmed. David's apartment was small, only three rooms, but comfortable. The furniture, Early American style, went well with the main room and his bedroom. Nothing went well or right with his bathroom. David had shown her the apartment with little emotion, considering this was the first woman he had permitted inside since his Linda had called it quits and had run home to the security of her father's five-digit income and her mother's head-patting family togetherness. He had mixed the Bacardi rum and Coca Cola well, too. This was Linda's drink, but now he was sharing it with a strange woman whom he had only known a little over an hour, just since their meeting in the park. "Why are you lonely?" He had his back toward her and didn't see the movement of her lips. "What?" he spoke, turning to face her. "Why are you lonely?" she repeated, putting the emphasis on "you". "Me?" He acted surprised. "I'm not lonely. Why do you ask that?" "You seem lonely." Her voice was almost a whisper. "No, I'm just, well, displeased with where I am. I mean, I should be on top. I am a good poet, you know. What I write people should read. But I just don't get published, at least not enough to get a name." He felt he'd spoken too quickly and had failed to cover his loneliness. "Oh," her voice confirmed his fear. It was a let's-drop-the-subject-then rather than an acceptance of his answer. He took a sip of the coke-and-rum, then led her to the Early American couch. They sat down side by side, as they had been sitting in the park. She finished the rest of her drink before she spoke. "I'm lonely." Her voice was thick and melodious. "I've been alone ever since I can remember." David took her glass and went into the kitchen to mix them another drink. Her voice carried easily to him, although she spoke quietly, 19