Neal Martz—the boy, the fool, and the buffoon sat on a worn park bench, the paint on its surface had gradually faded away with time, just like the memories of an alzheimer's patient. Above him the sky wore a heavy dark quilt, rain bearing clouds were beaming but no one could see their dreary smiles.
The air smelled of damp earth, and approaching rain—the kind that made most cowards hurry indoors while the courageous ones usually danced, until their feet start hurting or the sky shocked them into oblivion.
Yet Neal found a certain beauty in the calm before the storm, a serenity that only the nature's music could bring. Everything appeared beautiful to his eyes, the atmosphere wasn't bleak at all.
For the past few days the rain fell from the sky like an etheral princess—slow in its descent and calm in its approach. It hadn't yet given its furious powers to the rivers, and transform them into floods that wreck towns, turn entire cities into big swimming pools and smash the farmers' crops into nothingness.
The black clouds—parents of the rain were still there floating in the sky in a calm, merciful and restrained state. Nature maintained the balance between destruction and peace.
Moving his eyes away from the sky. Neal glanced downward, his eyes lingered on his black shoes, covered in a fine layer of dust. The footgear appeared extremely tired, worn out, after all this particular pair had walked through numerous paths and broken mountainous roads.
A faint smile crossed his lips, which further transformed into a wide grin. He believed, 'These pair of shoes—the moment they came out of the box, were destined for ruination, as everthing that touches the earth eventually wears away.' Perhaps that was the ultimate truth that life was trying to teach us all along — decay was the true ending of every living and lifeless story.
A coughing fit broke the silence. An old man shuffled past his bench, leaning on a cane, his handkerchief was stained with spit, blood and nasal fluids. The old timer looked like age and death personified. Neal watched him go, he didn't feel disgusted, on the contrary his eyes were calm, almost tender as if he was looking at a prancing fawn—full of life and vitality.
There was no pity in his gaze, only a quiet acknowledgement, a deep understanding that yet another soul was approaching the end of its lifespan. He believed that the tired old man would soon be free from this pitiful life.
In death's peaceful embrace he won't ever have to suffer through such cruel suffocation—a present from life.
The first drops of rain began to fall from the sky, soft and uncertain. Asking permission to disturb the esteemed gentleman who sat on the bench. Neal didn't move at all. He stayed still, leaned back, cool droplets touched his face, and he knew the rain cleansed his soul.
"Excuse me. Can I talk to you for a second?" A stranger tapped Neal's shoulder.
"Sure. Fire your shots." Neal replied.
"Am I pretty?"
"And what kind of a question is that?"
"A genuine one."
"How can I even answer that question? You're standing behind me. Come up front. And let me have a good look at you."
The stranger nodded her head, she appeared right in front of him, without making a single sound.
"Hmm... You are wearing a mask?"
"I'm a little sensitive about my face."
"Then why are you going on a blind date?"
"Excuse me. You are being extremely rude."
"Don't be offended. I'm genuinely curious, will your date really appreciate this pandemic look?"
"He's a gentleman. He loves my personality."
"I believe you. I really do. No one could ever appreciate your flat existence."
She was truly pissed, her eyes were breathing fire, if looks could kill, surely by now Neal Martz would have been a charred corpse.
The stranger ripped off her mask, forcefully threw it at his face.
"Am I pretty, Mister?"