No Envy

I've got a rather devilishly handsome and frustratingly charming friend. He's what you would call a natural. A natural with women. The ladies love him. Needless to say, I'm thoroughly jealous of him.

His name's Avon. And this is the story of how he proved to me there's no need to envy him.

One day, he was sitting alone in the park. Alone. A rare occurrence with Avon. Like most men who are good with women, he's seldom found alone. He's afraid of it.

I happened to walk by and saw him there, sitting on the bench with its peeling green paint, his eyes gazing out into the autumn sunset. The leaves had just begun to change colors, falling in a flurry of yellow, orange, and red.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Time," Avon responded.

As I said, Avon is an incredibly good-looking guy, but everyone knows good looks aren't enough to get you by with women. You have to know how to talk. And Avon sure knew how to talk. Hearing his voice was like-or so I've been told by members of the opposite sex-feeling the vibrations of harp strings: subtle, teasing, not at all enough to be obtrusive but just enough to leave you wanting more.

On this evening, I heard no harp strings.

I sat down next to him. There was an old couple on the field flying a kite together, their hands overlapping each other. A youngster was playing with his dog, laughing as the canine licked his face. The occasional bicyclist or jogger went by. The setting sun seemed to stretch the shadows of the tall trees into eternity.

"You okay?"

"I...don't know. I just know I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired." His words were robotic.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

"For?"

"Them. I thought it would be sincere to do this in person rather than over the phone. With all of them present."

I knew then what Avon meant: the girls. Avon didn't look at me as he spoke, his eyes never leaving the setting sun. Or maybe it was the falling leaves.

"How's your girlfriend?" he asked all of a sudden, his voice betraying interest.