The Man on the Curb

Every day he sat on the curb. Sometimes parents stared. Sometimes their kids asked what he was doing.

"Waiting." He would reply.

He never looked sad or pensive. He did just as he said: he waited. He would sit; eyes wide and glazed over, staring up the street much like a child awaiting the icecream truck.

The kids would hear whispers of their parents, hushed tones explaining to each other, "She left. And she's never coming back."

Once a boy tried to sit down with the man, and his parents hurried out of their house and scooped him up, locking the door firmly behind them. For the rest of the day through the window the boy watched the man who sat so casually on the curb, rose in hand.

He wore a different button up shirt every day and khaki pants, shiny brown shoes and a belt. He always held a flower; sometimes a daisy, sometimes a tulip, sometimes a rose. he came out and sat on the curb every day at five o clock and stared at the top of the street till nine.

"Crazy." Claimed some of the parents. "Sad and insane." Came muffled whispers of others.

The children on the street liked to play ball in the cul-de-sac and he would wave from his little indent on the curb, the casual hello of a neighbor. The kids would wave back and wonder who his flower was for and when they were to arrive.

He worked in the garden and on the lawn, keeping them beautiful and impressive for the surrounding trees and passing shadows. His house was white with blue shingles, a sweet little cottage built for two. And each day he walked out the front door, made his way down to the curb and sat.

It was a simple afternoon, light breeze in the air and sun sending rays down to caress the occupants of the street while the parents watched the man and the kids played carelessly as a small silver car glided down the street. The man stood, salt and pepper hair slightly ruffled by the breeze. The kids kept playing, unaffected and the adults gawked, some peeping their heads out of their doors and windows.

From the car stepped a regal woman, silver hair streaming down her back. The man offered her the yellow daisy and she took it, smiling as if this were the simplest gesture she'd ever recieved. Without so much as a word, the two laced their hands together and strode up the yard to his lovely home at ease, content smiles on their faces.

After opening the door and allowing her to walk in, he turned back to the cul-de-sac and saluted to the children, who offered toothy grins and waves in response. He entered the house.

The parents, snooping from doors and windows and some standing in plain view just watched, mouths agape.