Fiction Friday: One Sunday at Angels Knoll Park, Part 1

She didn’t hate him, but she didn’t love him either. When she looked over at his sharp features – the strong nose, the prickly stubble, the wrinkled shirt – she felt instead that she was looking at a piece of art. Taking in his appearance for evaluation, preparing to write a dissertation on the futile beauty of unemployed twenty-somethings who called themselves artists.

What she didn’t feel was any tug on her heart, any longing to reach over and touch him, be close to him, be with him. She felt instead that she was perfectly comfortable on her side of the bench and hoped to God that he wouldn’t slide over.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he breathed, gazing at the Los Angeles cityscape as if it were the ocean off the Amalfi Coast. “You never see it this way.”

“Looks the same to me,” she said flatly.

“How can you say that?” He gestured fervently with his arms. “It’s incredible. Where’s your sense of romance?”

Exactly what she was wondering. He’d brought her to this place for a reason. His reason. He wanted to show her something that was important to his very being.

All she could think about was the half-eaten can of sardines in her fridge that she couldn’t wait to go home and finish. The loaf of pumpernickel bread she’d bought with the sardines was still plump and fresh, but it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. She had to devour it before it was too late.

In the growing darkness of the evening, she saw bright flashes of light from behind her. She turned to see a small group of Japanese tourists taking their picture. A few had set up their tripods. She pulled her hoodie over her head immediately.

“What the hell are they doing?”

He looked behind him nonchalantly, as if it were perfectly normal to be the subject of this tourist paparazzi. He chuckled. “They must have seen the movie. They know it’s a landmark.”

“Japanese tourists have seen 500 Days of Summer?”

He turned toward the city again, straightening his shirt to back pose for the cameras. “That’s so cool. And we’re sitting here just like they were.”

But there was nothing cool about it. She hopped off the wooden bench and hustled away, slinging her bag over her shoulder. The cameras snapped like crazy. She hid behind a tree until the last tripod had been collapsed and stowed.

Click here to read One Sunday at Angels Knoll Park, Part 2