How it Has to Be

I love my favorite bench. Every year, I go back to it, and every year they try to shove me off. I fight them. They think that because I'm old and white-haired, I won't fight hard. They're wrong.

This year was no different. I sat there, loving the bench, going cross-eyed as I tried to watch the snowflakes drift right past my nose. The cold air tasted icy-sweet in my mouth. The whole world had that smell, the one that you only notice when you bury your face in a wet snow-cone cup and the paper starts to go soft. The delicious frost melts in the cup, and you smell that wonderful sharp cold. Your teeth go numb and the chill pushes past your throat and down your aching chest, but it feels good. Not like the pushing I got that day.

I didn't notice him at first. He must have sidled up to my bench like a strange yellow ninja. His clothes were bright, as always, and he was as young and sensuous as ever. I caught him looking me up and down, shameful, looking at an old woman that way. I instinctively ducked my head. I hunkered down. He wouldn't knock me off this time. I was prepared for the bastard.

"It's really time," he said. "I've given you extra."

"Not enough," I said. "Grant an old lady just a little more comfort. Go away."

"No way. You said that last time, and the time before." He pushed up his sleeves, revealing tight and muscled arms. He was a little pale, as was to be expected at my time of year. Pity. With a body like his, it'd be nice if he had a tan, like the one that will come to push him off the bench.

I could tell he was irritated with me. I didn't care. Was it my problem if he was always in a hurry? That's young ones for you. Rush, rush, grow up; make love and babies, push old women away. He sat down at the end of the bench, and that's when I really grew frightened. He meant business, and poor old me, I was in his way. Oh dear, dear, he was going to try to make me leave. I just wanted to rest a little more. I was so tired. Working hard like I do. I'm always tired these days. Global warming, maybe. I don't remember it being this hard a few years ago. Not the work, and not the end that always came too soon.