A Safe Distance

Passing Strangers: A man follows his heart a little too closely

Passing Strangers is a weekly series of fictional portraits— keyhole views into the lives and inner worlds of other humans. These are standalone pieces but if you look carefully, you might begin to see a how they’re all brush strokes in a broader landscape. Visit the table of contents to find all the portraits.

They walked two and a half miles without talking. It was cool for late May. She wore the pink cardigan he loved—the one with the small hole in the elbow. She hadn’t worn it in weeks. He noticed such things, but then, he noticed everything about her.

As they neared the park, the sidewalk filled with event-goers loaded like pack animals with lawn chairs, coolers, and picnic baskets. Some pulled wagons filled with the equipment and accessories to set up elaborate tents with all the comforts of home. She carried only a small backpack with a Hello Kitty keychain attached to the zipper.

They made their way through the gates to the event. He hated crowds—the press of people moving amoeba-like, filling the available space as they sweated and complained or talked drunk-loud, relaying inane, meandering stories to the captive audience around them. Mostly, he hated crowds because it was hard to keep up with her—to not lose sight of her walking twenty yards ahead.

He had to push his way through the crush of people, swim against the current when she turned unexpectedly. His heart hammered in his chest when he scanned the backs of heads and couldn’t spot her dark braids. His fear of losing her was equaled only by his fear of being discovered, so he shoved the panic down, took a few deep breaths, and moved swiftly as he scanned the crowd.

He loved her in a desperate, unreasonable way that he had never loved anyone else in his forty-seven years. She was this perfect innocent, her life unmarred by the impersonal brutality of the world. He intended to keep it that way. She was his, and he longed to hold her, to make her pancakes on Sunday mornings, to take her to the movies—anything just to be within the throw of her radiance.

She was nowhere in sight. He began to panic. He should have stayed closer. Did she know he was following her—sense it somehow, and intentionally run? No, how could he ever be seen as a threat? In the past two years of following her, he liked to imagine she did feel his presence but had assimilated it as an invisible comfort, like shade from a tall tree on a hot day.

They had shared so much together—afternoons in the library as she bent over stacks of books, ice cream cones at the little shop across from her apartment building, lazy afternoons at the city pool where she lay in the sun with her friends, pretending not to notice the boys who splashed loudly nearby. He knew her. Knew what she liked. Knew her routine.

But here, in this crowd, anything could happen to her.

He pushed through a wall of frat boys and ignored their threats. He walked faster, sweating as he weaved in and out of clusters of people.

He was momentarily distracted by a loud boom somewhere to the right—an explosion, maybe, or just someone thumping a microphone in the amphitheater.

When he bumped into her, she was looking directly into his face, her brows a straight, angry line.

After years of wondering and hoping—for the first time, he saw the sea glass green of his own eyes staring back at him.

« Previous Stranger | Table of Contents | Next Stranger »

Please ❤️ this post and leave a comment if it spoke to you in some way. Your feedback and willingness to engage with my writing mean everything.