The Bench

          An old man sat on a bench in the middle of the street. Cars went past on either side of the strip of pavement. People walked back and forth, hurrying to their next destination, or simply enjoying the warm weather, though it was already November.          Though they might have found the fact that it was a one-way street appealing - indeed, that was one of the main charms of the southern city - the old man couldn't care less. He would have been terrified even if it were a small country lane. His rheumy eyes peered up at the passer-bys, wondering whether anyone would notice his small cries for help.
         No one stopped. No one came. No one helped.
         Why would they? he wondered. He was worthless anyway. A simple old man, half-blind, weak and trembling, unable to keep up with the times. He felt as though life was a great river, rushing around him, much like the roads. Each car was like a twist in the water, threatening to drown him if he didn't adapt to the new current. Had cars always been this loud?
         He cast his mind back seventy years, back when his wife was a lively young woman whose eyes shone with mischief and excitement at being able to ride in a car - something her father had ordered her not to do. They were too dangerous, he had said. Back then he himself had been a young man, quick to dismiss the caution of his elders. But now… Now he knew what his father-in-law had meant.
         A young man wearing his trousers so that you could see his underwear - the latest craze it seemed - and hair so long and braided that back in the old man's time he would have been mocked for looking like a girl, wheeled past on his skateboard, jeering loudly at the stupid old man sitting on the bench. The latter flinched at every insult, as though he was physically being beaten, every word like a whiplash.
         Eventually the youth grew bored, and left.
         The old man stood up, and heaved at his shopping bag, putting every effort into lifting it. It was no use: he barely managed to lift it a centimetre off of the ground before it fell back down, the milk crashing dangerously near the eggs. He swiftly checked them - no they weren't crushed. He sighed in despair.
         What was he doing here? The town was cursed, he was sure of it.  His grandchildren had warned him, told him to stay near them, in the North. It might be cold, but at least we're together, they pleaded.
         But his wife had wanted an adventure.
         Though she was old and greying, he couldn't see the lines creasing her face, the slight pause where the light didn't quite reach her eyes when he talked to her, not until it was too late.
         Alzheimer's. A well-known disease, and an incurable one. Though to some it might seem romantic, most found it tragic. How terrible! people said, when he told them his wife was in hospital. And then they moved onto a safer subject. The weather, for instance. They didn't know how it felt, and he saw the guilty look in their eyes, sorry for have even mentioned it.
         He felt like a part of his soul had been torn out.
         Yet he couldn't bring himself to move. Not after the car had been stolen, not after the walls had been covered in graffiti. Not even after their apartment had been broken into, and anything of value had been taken.
         Things had only gone downhill after she had been admitted to the hospital. Not only was it all the way across town, but the recognition in her eyes came later and later, until her eyes - her beautiful eyes - had died altogether. Only a feverish glint appeared, and even then they remained glassy and unfocused. But he still visited, daily, and then weekly, until it was he who could recognise her no longer. His wife had been replaced by a snarling beast who screamed at him to get out, and ripped the flowers he brought, though they had once been her favourite, but he continued to visit.
         It was ironic, actually, how his strength waned, leaving him a trembling, hunched wretch, whereas she seemed to only grow stronger. Two nurses were needed to hold her down, until they were forced to tell him that his presence only enraged her. He wasn't allowed to visit any longer, but still he stayed.
         So he watched her through the window, and placed the flowers by her side whilst she slept, and waited, coming back to the apartment only when he was ushered out by the anxious staff.
         And now he was left on the weathered bench, unable to move, but still not giving up. And although he remained unnoticed by many, unwanted by her, he stayed.
         He stayed for her.