The Bench

By Jordan Temchack

I look up and there he is. He looks surprised like a cardinal in a supermarket.

“That doesn’t go anywhere, does it?” he asks.

I glance to my right where the path ends and the forest extends about 12 miles until it reaches into some little town that I can’t remember the name of. “No, sorry,” I say, lowering my eyes to my book.

“So whatcha reading?” he asks.

I already want to tell him to fuck off- that it should be pretty apparent that the person choosing to sit on a bench, reading a book (a good book, too) is not a person looking for conversation. But I’m trying to be less introverted. I’m trying to not give off the vibe that my friends tease me about. They call it my “I want everyone to fuck off” look, which is not even something that I would ever actually say out loud. So, “The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon,” I answer.

“Never heard of it,” he says, pulling an orange out of his jacket pocket, tossing it back and forth between his hands lazily like a beer league softball player. “Is it good?”

Seriously, I think, fuck off, dude. I’ve got a class in half an hour, and all I wanted was to relax and read my book before I need to go dissect a baby pig. “Yea,” I say.

“Cool,” he says.

The brittle red and yellow leaves in my periphery hang motionless, but the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention like a breeze cut through those warm colors. I hear a crunch, but I keep my eyes directed at the blurred words on the page. My father’s voice pleads from the back of my memory, telling me I’m not allowed to ride my bike home from Liz’s house across town, despite the fact that my brother has been doing the same thing for years. I understand, I want to tell him now. I raise my head slowly, my eyes stretch leftward.

“Guess I’ll let you get back to it,” he says. I acknowledge him, scrunching the corners of my mouth and nodding my head slightly.

I try to start reading again, but I can’t help feeling a little shook, a little stupid, and a little guilty. He probably thinks I’m a bitch, and I don’t know why I care, but I do. I want to tell my dad; see, not everyone is some creepy murderer trying to lure you into their van. He was even sort of cute actually.

I feel a hand on my neck. I try to stand, but my legs just flail like a kid on a swing, my back is glued to the cold steel rails of the bench and the crook of his elbow fits snug around my throat. I try to pull his arm, but my hands can’t grip the windbreaker fabric. I finally remember to scream, but a hand seals my mouth. I pull the sweet smell of oranges into my nostrils.

“Your honor,” he says, “I am allergic to oranges.”