How They Met - a short story by Florence Liberfarb...

Tillie, as she started on her daily walk in the park across the street, had noticed crocuses on one corner of her building.

Some of her friends, now living in warmer climates, had asked her to join them there.

“I like the four seasons,” she told them.

She found spring delightful, summer generally comfortable and even winter, mostly tolerable.

That walking path was one of the reasons she and her husband had bought their condo. And, although alone now, it was one of the reasons she still stayed there. Other reasons, of course, were a goodly number of friends and the exciting nearby city, where something was always going on.

Tillie took deep breaths, stretching her posture to its utmost, as she began to quicken her pace. The man approaching her was walking at an even faster clip. Just as he passed her, a bug flew into her mouth. She stopped and spit it out in time. Suddenly that man turned and approached her. He looked annoyed.

“Is that how you show your contempt for someone?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

“Spitting as some one passes you,” he said.

“A bug flew into my mouth,” she explained. “What was a I supposed to do?”

His expression changed abruptly.

“Oh…I’m sorry.”

He looked confused, at a loss for words.

“Forgive me, “ he mumbled and hurried away.

“The people one meets! Handsome, though.” she mused.

Her cleaning service was coming in an hour, and she was having the Great Books group at her place this evening. She dismissed the odd incident that just occurred and continued walking.

But after the incident with the bug, she began to see this person at various places. The supermarket. The library. The civic center. He would catch her eye, his glance telling her that he remembered. But he never approached her, either out of embarrassment or disinterest.

One Friday night she went to Services with her neighbor, May and he was there. Later during the Oneg, he came over to her.

“We’ve met. You probably don’t remember,” he said.

He was dressed in a good-looking tweed jacket and pale wool slacks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. You though I was spitting at you,” she said with a challenging smile.

While they chatted she got the impression that he was intelligent and cultured. Overly sensitive, she guessed. Was he, perhaps, and artist?

“Before my retirement, I taught art for many years at the Raines Institute,” he said, reading her mind, “After my wife died I never picked up a brush again.”

His name was Howard Winters. He asked her if he could call her.

On the phone, his voice resonated through her. They began to date. In the beginning it was daytime events – art exhibits, lectures, museums. He was courteous, considerate. She enjoyed his company, although found him at times to be somewhat remote.

At first it was relaxing to be with someone who demanded so little of her. But at times, it also made her restive. Still they were drawing closer. He smiled more. And she was becoming more attracted to him. And she made allowance for his quiet and his reserve. Tillie used to be more critical at one time. Lately, however, she notices that she overlooked quite a lot. Loneliness can do that.

Several weeks later, it was the end of May and unusually warm, they were waiting in line for a matinee movie that was getting excellent reviews. As they were standing there, dark clouds were building in the east.

“Why doesn’t this line move?” he asked, looking at the menacing sky. “I’ll get the umbrella in my car, if you wish.”

But just as the line started to move a couple rushed over and slid in front of them. Howard glared at the man, who had immediately started to talk to the woman in front of him.

“Excuse us,” the man turned to Howard. “We had to go a distance to park our car.”

“This kind of thing is not allowed,” Howard told him with great annoyance.

The others stared at him.

“This is my brother and his wife,” the woman explained to him. “I’ve been saving a place for them.”

“I don’t care if he’s the King of Siam, he has no business pushing into this line,” Howard said, his anger increasing.

Tillie gently tugged at his sleeve, saying softly, “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”

But he jerked his arm away from her and kept up the tirade, looking up at the sky, as the clouds darkened and moved closer. Tillie got a sinking feeling, like being on an elevator that was rapidly careening downward.

“It’s a wide door going in, but a small one coming out,” someone once told her a long time ago. And back then she was much slimmer.

Florence Liberfarb writes poetry, short stories and plays. You may freely republish this story for non-commercial use provided you follow the Publisher Guidelines and provide a hyperlink (electronic media) to the Wordly Web Site. You may not alter the copyright notice or edit the content of this story. Please notify the author of your intent to republish. Commercial use of this story requires written permission and payment of a royalty.

How They Met by Florence Liberfarb

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Poems, Stories, and Plays by

Florence Liberfarb