Secrets

Let me tell you a secret:

One weekend, as I was reading in the park, a girl sat down on the bench beside me. She had close-cropped black hair and a tired look in her grey eyes, and wore a black sweater and jeans.

— Is this seat taken? she asked.

"No, not at all," I replied, looking up, "or rather, it is now."

She smiled wanly; I found myself smiling back, and we spoke for some time: about the weather, about the park, and about Bullfinch's Mythology, a recently inherited copy of which I had been reading. Around sunset she excused herself: it was getting late, and she had somewhere to be. We went off in opposite directions.

The next week, as I sat reading in the park, a girl sat down on the bench beside me. She had shoulder-length hair, and a charcoal blouse and slacks, and a familiar grey-eyed face.

— Is this seat taken? she asked.

"No, not at all," I replied, looking up, "or rather, it is now."

She smiled broadly; I found myself smiling back, and we spoke for some time: about the weather, about politics, about the space program (she'd met Neil Armstrong once, she mentioned). Around sunset I excused myself: it was getting late, but I'd see her next week? She laughed, and nodded, and waved to me as I left.

The weekend after that, I again spent the day reading in the park. But it grew late, and I had finished my novel; as the last of the Sun slipped below the horizon, I stood up, waiting for only a few moments in the quiet and solitude before walking away from the empty bench.

Suddenly I was interrupted from behind by a pair of arms, and a weight against my neck.

— Are these shoulders taken? she asked.

"No, not at all," I replied, not needing to look, "or rather, they are now."

I turned to face her. She was radiant: long platinum-blonde hair; an immaculate white silk gown; and familiar grey eyes, in which I was lost until the morning.

Let me tell you a secret: the Moon does not revolve around the Earth. She revolves around me, and I her.