My Perfect Bench

Summary

The author describes a reflective and emotional experience while sitting on a bench overlooking the Manhattan skyline during a cold winter evening in New York, contemplating the city's sounds, lights, and the Whitestone Bridge, despite the absence of the sun.

Abstract

In "My Perfect Bench," the author recounts a serene yet chilling evening spent on a bench in Queens, New York, where the silence is filled with the distant sounds of sirens, planes, and birds. As dusk falls at 5:00 pm, the author is drawn to the lights of Manhattan across the river, personifying the buildings and their lights, which seem to communicate and offer comfort. The Whitestone Bridge's red lights flicker in the fog, adding to the city's mysterious allure. Despite the cold and hunger, the author feels a deep connection to New York City, finding solace and inspiration in its winter landscape. The experience is so powerful that even the bench seems to hold the author in an embrace, reluctant to let go. The piece ends with a farewell to the cold, the city, and the hidden sun, with a hopeful anticipation of tomorrow's reunion.

Opinions

The author finds beauty and tranquility in the city's ambient sounds and the reflections of city lights on the water.
There is a sense of personification given to the city and its elements, such as the buildings and the bench, which the author perceives as communicative and comforting.
The author expresses a profound emotional bond with New York City, describing it as a friend and the essence of their soul.
The cold and practical challenges like hunger and the absence of the sun are acknowledged but do not deter the author's desire to write and connect with the city.
The bench is given an almost sentient quality, as if it's trying to keep the author there, suggesting a reluctance to part with the moment of inspiration.
The piece conveys a mix of melancholy and hope, as the author looks forward to returning to the bench and the city's embrace the following day.

FICTION — SHORT STORY

My Perfect Bench

New York Winter, Queens. January 2021 — Image by Author

Today, I found the perfect bench to immerse myself in the silence, to peacefully hear all its magic voices, and maybe embark upon one of my creepy stories.

Voices of distant sirens, planes flying, birds singing, voices of calm. I am just waiting for the early night. It is just 5:00 pm, and it is getting dark. I cannot see my old friend, the sun; he is hiding around.

Somehow, he managed to leave me here in the cold with the lights of the Manhattan skyline. What do the buildings have to say tonight? I still do not know; I am here just to discover what they have inside. I am just focusing on their lights, their shine, their whispers, their words. I just want to stop to stay, just want to stare at them for hours, listening to the magic voice of silence.

There is a bridge far away. It is foggy, I barely see. It seems to be the Whitestone Bridge. Whitestone Bridge? What do you have to say? What about your red lights? I can see some of your red spots.

Suddenly, I get distracted by a loud stumbling noise. There is a plane flying over my head. Now I come back to feel the lights mirroring in the water; it is beautiful. Reflections are sharing old city stories with me.

I feel the skyline lights; they are touching me. New York City is telling me to calm down, telling me not to cry, to see its lights in my darkest nights, just like tonight. I feel alone; the buildings are my friends, and Manhattan is my soul. I just want to be there, walking in the city, breathing its air, flying inside that fog, running away, playing like a child in the snow.

My first winter in New York, I am shivering with the cold, I feel as though I cannot write anymore. My hands are telling me to stop, but my heart is telling me to go on, to write some more. I’m hungry; I have not had lunch; I was in a rush. I just wanted to come here and write with the sun, but now he is gone.

I cannot stand here in the cold; the wind is pushing me away. My perfect bench is grabbing my legs with its invisible arms. I feel them; the bench’s arms are hugging me strong, telling me to stay. But for today, I said no; I am struggling with its force. I will stop.

Goodbye, cold; goodbye, New York; goodbye, my hidden sun. I hope tomorrow when I come here, you are not gone.

FICTION — SHORT STORY

Lesther Karina Nieves©

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