Button's Bench

The little old man.

The crest of the moon rose above the trees as the last birds nestled in the boughs of the highest branches. Across the lake and along the path stood three benches with the carved initials of friends and lovers scrawled upon their backs. On the second bench sits Button.

Button is older than the benches and his legs are twice as long. His beard tickles his chest and hefty whiskers droop like willow leaves along the curvature of his face. On his lap is a small floral saucer and in his right gnarled hand is a small floral tea cup. He takes a sip with a contented sigh.

The park is silent but the air is alive; there is an electricity and energy expected only in cities that never sleep. Button hears it clearer than most because he chooses to listen: he hears the dogs barking as a gang of youths vandalise a suburban bus stop; he listens as police rush to a mugging in an alley and he notices the patter of a hundred squirrels in the world of branches and foliage above. He hears the trees creak in the crisp air.

The coat he wears is thick but the cold bites like a rabid dog carried on the wind. With small and delicate fingers Button ties up his collar and wraps it tight; his body is weak and he grumbles as arthritic fingers creak and crack. With a dying soul Button took comfort in the world around him: Button never felt more alive than when he was sat drinking tea in the park.

It was thus that Button stumbled across Tom; or rather Tom stumbled across Button. Tom was a young man, Button discerned by the fall of his foot, but he was troubled or lacking purpose, as the pace he travelled was slow and meandering. He was slumped in a posture seen only in those with dying hope and an active mind; the type of lonely philosopher we all become at times, Button decided.

Calm and motionless, Button faded into non-existence in the dark; he sunk into his surroundings like an urban chameleon and he watched as Tom rested across the railings, eyes on the water. From the illumination of a single light above, Button caught the glisten of tears upon Tom’s cheek.

As a man long forgotten by the world, Button was an introvert to the fullest extent. He’d sit alone for hours upon hours, sometimes until the sun rose over the buildings and he was bathed in the warm chorus of morning; but tonight, he saw something in Tom that intrigued him. He had witnessed conflict and love alike and on many occasions attempted to help, but his appearance sent people sprinting down the path; he had given up, but there was innocence in the lone walker that inspired courage in Button.

With a quivering hand the old man reached down and pulled a second teacup from the midst of a battered satchel and placed it on the bench beside him. He always had two teacups, from habit, more than anything else, but the idea was comforting to Button. With a small cough mustered from a dry throat not used to talking, Button announced his presence. Tom, shocked at the sudden noise, being so lost in his own thoughts, leapt a little against the railings and almost toppled forwards: with a hurried embarrassment his hands flew to his face to wipe away tears before turning to the source of the noise. When he saw Button sitting alone, proffering a small floral teacup, his face discovered the expression which hovers between incredulity and horror.

‘Come on, son, I don’t bite’ chortled Button with a certain uneasiness, his hand slumping in preparation for Tom to run away.

But, with assured footing, Tom covered the ground between railing and bench in a few steps and Button sat with a stunned silence as the walker slumped down and took the teacup. Recovering from shock, Button reached down for the thermo flask without taking his eyes off Tom, who was sat staring at the floor. Reaching across, the old man begins to pour the tea into the teacup but his hand shakes under the weight  - with a small touch, Tom takes the flask and pours his own tea.

‘Thank you’ he mutters.

They sit in the silence drinking tea for a long time. A dog walker walks past and gives them a curious look; Button can only begin to imagine what she must assume and he notices as the young lady passes she picks up her speed. As they finish their tea the clatter of teacup upon saucer rattles across the park.

‘Lemon and ginger?’ Tom asks, quietly.

‘Why, yes, it was’ Button replies, tucking the flask away.

‘It’s her favourite’ he sighs.

‘Ah, the infamous ‘her’; the same her who results in you roaming the park at night time, no doubt’ Button laughs, but the laugh is genuine and kind.

‘You’d be correct, Mr…?’ Tom asked, extending his hand.

‘Button. Call me Button’

‘I’m Tom’

‘Nice to meet you, Tom. Thank you for talking to me; it has been a long time’

Tom looks up into his eyes and the smile across Button’s face fills him with a self-fulfilling belief of having made a difference to a complete stranger: a feeling people crave as it can often be more rewarding than pleasing people you know inside out. 

Tom already feels better.

‘That’s alright, thank you for the tea’

‘Pleasure. Who is she?’ Button gestures towards the empty teacups with his hand.

‘Her name is Zoe. The girl I am in love with, or the emotion we all like to assume is love, anyway’

‘If it feels like love, it is love " who are we to say any differently?’

Tom pauses and nods slowly.

‘Yes, it is iove.’

‘Then why, my friend, are you walking alone in the park at eleven o’clock at night?’

‘Because what is love without pain, old man?’

Button laughs.

‘This is love without pain, Tom.’ He points to his chest. ‘I haven’t seen my wife for almost four years but I still come and sit on this bench because I can feel the love long after she is gone. We used to sit here all the time and it comforts me. It doesn’t hurt, my boy, it doesn’t hurt at all, because I understand it. I understand the love, even though many would consider it non-existent, and if I can understand it, I can beat it’

Tom doesn’t say anything.

‘Love, Tom, is as stubborn as the lash in your eye, and almost as infuriating.’

‘But all you have to do is understand it’

Tom nods his head: ‘How?’

‘Well you ask yourself is the bad worth the good? If it is, then you go and do whatever you can to secure that love, because it’s worth the pain; if it’s not, run away as fast as you can because whatever you do it will never be worth it and that’s the sad truth’

Tom rises slightly in the seat: ‘I don’t know how to make things better’.

‘You are young, Tom. Love at your age is beautifully exciting and incredibly pointless, although I know that if I was in your shoes I’d be spitting fire if anyone ever said that to me, and I understand if you don’t trust me because I know right now, in your heart, you can’t imagine your life without Zoe. That’s the power of youth. That tantalising innocence and naivety that we all lose one day keeps us believing that love is all important; but it’s not, it’s not at all, Tom. You will find someone else. You will find friendship. You will have random encounters with old men sitting on benches drinking tea in the twilight hour; you see life is fundamentally random in every way -- every choice we make is half chance, after all.’

Button sits back and sighs.

‘Just remember, Tom, it’s not over. If you really love this girl you go and get her. You tell her you love her, but when she grabs your delicate heart and pulls it out through your ears that is the moment that you need to accept the fact that not every love is meant to be. We’re all chasing our own ideals and maybe you need to find yourself before you dedicate your life to others: break hearts before your own gets broken, that’s what I always like to think. A broken heart is a cure for love and love cures heartbreak. That’s the cycle we all find ourselves in.’

Tom sits quietly but is nodding his head with a content understanding.

‘And that is all I have to say about that.’

There is a peaceful silence as Tom contemplates the old man’s words.

‘Thank you, Button’ he smiles and stands up, ‘I’m going to and get her but I will remember this. You’ve stirred something in me I haven’t felt before and I thank you for it. Thank you for the tea’

With a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Tom walks away into the darkness and Button sits with a smile across his cracked lips. As Tom reached the bend around the lake, he looked back through the trees at Button’s bench, but Button was no-where to be seen.

However, resting snugly between the cracks in the bench, tucked neatly together, were two floral teacups.

Reviews

[Marie]

Neat story...slightly surreal at the last...but there was something of fantasy about teacups and saucers and lemon and ginger tea in the park...
The reader's imagination has to supply Button's reality...or not...

[Harry Alston]

Food for thought, that's all, haha. Thank you as always Marie :)

[KAOlmsted]

Oh I just love the sagacious tone of Button's words when describing "love"...spoken like someone who has been there...damn fine write, Harry, as usual.

[Harry Alston]

Thank you very much, it's appreciated - hopefully we'll all be like Button one day :)

[quinfinn]

a beautiful and wonderfully crafted story of companionship and sage advice from an unlikely ally. i have always loved the name "Zoe" a relevant and touching write!

[Harry Alston]

Thank you Quin, I've always loved the name Zoe too :)

[Adam Whitworth]

fine

[de_maruf]

fine

[DrD]

Nicely flowing dialogue with no wasted words. Excellent imagry and the progression of the tale is smooth and well calculated. Very nice job.

[Harry Alston]

Thank you as always!