An elderly man sits alone in a busy diner. It’s dimly lit with overhead lights set at a pace to shimmer over each table. The tables, along with their designated chairs, are a stained red wood, polished nicely to reflected the world around them. The hosting furniture is constructed to mock the newer, fresh design of the diner. The establishment intends to keep up with the new century’s fashion it now resides in. However, in a corner of the diner lies a petite, old booth where the elderly man sits. The booth the man rests in is aged and unchanged, seeming to exist in a much different time from the diner itself. The leather that wraps the booth is torn at all corners. A black undertone consumes the edges of each gash, while most of the booth holds its chocolate brown hue. Natural light streams through the window beside him, enticing the blue in his eyes to regain its vibrancy from the worn grey his eyes currently possess. Every streak of color in his iris tells a single story, and when joined together, his eyes become the novel of his life. The tale is told to every soul who fixes on his gaze.
I drift down a Central Park sidewalk. Listening to the simultaneous beat of roller blades clashing against the ground. My wife and I skate hand in hand for her fear of falling. I watch as the seemingly nocturnal residents pass us on foot at a leisurely pace. Though it also feels like a social construct or expectation to hold my wife’s hand in the public eye. A symbol that we are a couple. That we are in love, sharing an eternal bond. A feeling that dwells on the inside, is now being displayed on the outside for all to see. However, one could say that my heart and my hand are having a miscommunication.