The leaves have begun to fall. They litter the jogging path in a field of yellows, reds, and browns. They fall without a sound. The wind is steady, cool, and it pushes the dead leaves along the jogging path with a whisper. Evy arrived early. She knows Paul will find that amusing. She was always late. It had become a running joke between them.

The sky is a warship grey but there is no threat of rain. It is exactly like the day when they last saw one another. Behind her, four kids kick a soccer ball around the lawn. Before her, a young woman in yoga pants runs by, crushing the dead leaves under the weight of her designer running shoes. “So young and fit, still in her prime”, Evy muses. As she once was, but no longer. She never gave being sixty-two much thought. It seemed like yesterday when she was forty, fifty. Even then she had these thoughts about aging, but they soon went away. She simply got on with her life. She was breathing and relatively healthy. She knows she should count her blessings. When the kids were gone, those thoughts returned. It’s an empty nest now. 

She watches the young woman in yoga pants continue to jog down the path. How old is she? Twenty-five, thirty, tops? Her own children’s age. The wind blows a leaf onto her lap. It’s golden and its edges are curled. She holds it by the stem between her fingers. How slim and soft they used to be. She lets the leaf go. The wind carries it away. The cycle of life. All things succumb to it. Including us. It’s not something she wants to think about but she can’t help herself. That’s just how it is now. 

In order to distract herself, she removes her cellphone from her coat pocket and begins to check her messages, scrolling through her social media page, and deleting unwanted emails. Inevitably, she begins to look through old photographs. When she was younger, vibrant, still full of youthful exuberance, and to her mind, prettier. There is one photograph of her wearing one of her favorite dresses. How slim and attractive she was! Her hair had just been done, her makeup expertly applied, and she wore shoes in which she spent a small fortune. She can no longer wear that dress. She scrolls past it, but there are other photos which only serve to amplify the rapid passage of time. 

She shuts down the app and lets the phone rest in her lap. With that photo still in mind, she looks at how she dressed for the day. Jeans, a beige sweater, boots, topped off by a well worn brown suede coat. Her hair is thinner, more limp, less stylized. The wind is having its way with it. The photo haunts her. She opens the app again and looks at it. God, how she loved that dress. Memories of that evening come rushing back. A friend's birthday on the Upper West side. She walked in and immediately turned heads. One man in particular kept staring at her, much to her husband’s chagrin. She can’t even remember the last time her husband looked at her the way that man did. Even now, he no longer does. Things became routine. That night she felt sexy, desirable. It’s been a long time since she felt that way. Now the men no longer look. 

She closes out the app and checks the time. Paul should be arriving soon. She begins walking towards their designated meeting spot. She’s conscious of the sound her boots make on the pavement as she walks. A heavy thud. She doesn’t remember ever having such a heavy walk. She feels fat, uncomfortable. She buttons her coat in order to maintain the illusion of what she saw in the photograph. She wonders if Paul will look older. The closer she gets to Bethesda Fountain, the more intense the anxiety. She feels foolish in a way, for there is no reason to believe their reunion will be anything other than pleasant. As it always was. She had told no one about the meeting. Not her sister, through whom she met Paul, and especially not her husband. She didn’t even tell her friends, whom she normally tells everything to. Friends who have become addicted to Botox and other cosmetic enhancements, where they paid small fortunes in order to maintain the illusion of perpetual youth. She no longer believed in illusions but right now she yearns for one. 

She sees him before he sees her. He sits on one of the stone benches behind the fountain. He’s also wearing a brown suede coat and the blue scarf he had owned for years. He’s reading a paperback as the wind tousles his now grey hair over his eyes. He sees her as she rounds the fountain. He closes the book and slips it into his coat pocket, then rises to his feet to greet her. She smiles when she sees him, but it’s a controlled smile. Not too wide. Just enough. She embraces him, then reaches up to kiss his cheek. She’d forgotten how tall he was. They look at one another for a moment without saying anything, their eyes searching one another’s faces. 

“You came!”, he says. “I wasn’t sure if you would. You never answered my text.” He looks her over. “You look good.” 

She feels herself blushing, “Thank you. You look good too.” 

He looks at her a little longer, his eyes roadmapping the entirety of her. 

“Sit, please”, he says. 

They sit on the bench, facing the fountain. It’s active. The sound of running water is soothing. Dead leaves float in the water of the basin. 

“It’s been a long time,” he says. “You look good.” 

“I’ve been better.”’ 

“Is everything all right?” 

“Yes, everything is fine. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying. Were you waiting long?”

“Maybe five, ten minutes.” He smiles, then adds, “Though I was expecting to wait at least a half hour, knowing you.” 

Her laugh is pleasant, cheerful, as it always was. 

“It’s a beautiful day,” he says. “I always love Central Park on Sundays. Especially this time of year.”

There are tourists around them, taking photos in front of the fountain with their cellphones. Mothers push their children in strollers. Deep inside the tunnel which leads into the park, a young man plays his saxophone. Evy parts the hair away from her eyes and looks at Paul. He’s hardly aged, hardly gained a pound. Other than the grey hair, he looks exactly as he always did. It makes her nervous. 

“You’re still living in Riverdale?”

“Yes, it's still there.”

“It’s a beautiful house. I still remember your apartment on W84th.” 

“My sister lives there now.”

“Is that so… How is your sister? I haven’t spoken to her in a long time.” 

“She’s doing well, I guess.”

“Is she seeing anyone?” 

“No, not really.”

A hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “Does she know you’re here?” 

“No,” she says. “No one does.” 

Silence came, as it did sometimes. They let it. 

A gust of wind. A confetti of leaves. Mothers shield their babies from the chill by pulling the visors down on their strollers. The tourists fix their hair for the perfect autumn shot before the fountain. A little girl squeals due to the wind spraying a trickle of water from the fountain on her. It’s a picture perfect afternoon in Central Park. It’s the kind of autumn afternoon Evy always relished. A whiff of nostalgia accompanies the autumn breeze. It dances in the air with it. A ballet of the senses. 

“I was thinking about the last time”, Paul says, parting a strand of hair away from her eyes. 

“What about it?”

“You cried.” 

She nods. “It was stupid.” 

“It wasn’t”, he says, again brushing a strand of hair from her face. It’s an older face, but no less attractive. 

He pulls his hand away and leans forward to pick up a pebble. It’s dark and smooth. Odd looking. He rolls it between his fingers. 

“How’s your husband?”

“Okay, I guess. The same.”

“That’s what you said the last time.” 

“The last time. When I cried.” 

“I’m not married anymore”, he says. He tosses the pebble towards the fountain. It lands in the water with a light plunk. 

“You mentioned something about having issues”, she says.

“It’s actually final now.” 

She doesn’t say anything. A jogger passes, this time a young man. He’s young enough to be her son. She looks away, pulls a strand of hair away from her eyes. 

Paul looks at her. “No ring, I see.”

“It got tight.” 

“That happened to my wife too.” 

She looks away, towards the saxophone player in the tunnel. She doesn’t recognize the song he’s playing but it’s pleasant. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately”, he says. 

She looks at him, her eyes searching his face. “So have I.” 

“I guess that’s normal when one gets older.” 

They become silent again. The saxophone player finishes his song. 

“I used to love coming here when I was young”, she says. “When I first came to America, it was the first place I visited. When I first moved to the city, I felt as though everything was waiting specifically for me.”

“And now? Maybe it still is.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips. “Do you really believe that?” 

He doesn’t answer her. 

She studies his face again. There are lines now. She wonders what he sees in her.

Maybe he was thinking about her mouth, or the way her hair used to fall, or maybe none of those things.

“Why did you want to meet Evy?”, he asks. 

“It’s been a long time.” 

“Is that your answer?”

She looks away, towards the fountain. A sparrow stalks the edges, occasionally poking its beak into the water. 

“Maybe just to remember how it felt”, she says. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“I thought about you”, she says, facing him now. 

“Really? When? I haven’t heard from you in years.” 

“Often”, she says. “More often than you think. I thought a lot about the last time we met.”

“I remember.” 

“You made me feel…”

She doesn’t have to say it. He knows. 

“Have you thought about me?”

“I have. Perhaps too much.” 

She looks away. He plays with the ends of her hair. 

“You allowed me to forget for a little while”, she says. She turns to face him, her eyes searching his face. “Seeing you again helps me forget time. Like I’m not old yet.”

“You aren’t”, he says. 

“Oh I am, but you help me forget.” 

He touches her face with the palm of his hand, draws his lips closer to hers. She pulls back. 

“We should go somewhere”, she says. 

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. Coffee? Or maybe just take a walk.?” 

“We could go back to my place”, he says. 

She looks away, towards the far end of the park. 

“Or not” he says laughing. 

“I’d rather stay outside.”

They walk slowly through the tunnel, past the saxophone player who is now adjusting his mouthpiece, preparing for another tune. A gust of wind propels dead leaves into the tunnel. They swirl around their feet. 

“Are your feet cold?”, he asks her. 

“No. Why do you ask? These boots are warm.” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

She exhales through her nose. Her eyes water but she does not cry. No, it won’t happen again. Not this time. She looks down at her hands again. They’re older, fatter. She can now see the veins. She eyes the finger in which her wedding ring no longer fits. She looks up at him. He stares straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts. The once close friend now seems like a stranger and she doesn’t know why. They walk in silence a little further into the park, then pause by the bench on which she was seated earlier. Without saying anything, Paul sits down. She hesitates a moment, then sits beside him, leaving a respectable distance. He closes that distance, begins playing with her hair. She likes how it feels. They don’t say anything to one another. Their eyes do all the talking. He draws his lips closer to hers. Again, she pulls away. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can”, she says. 

Paul looks away. The trees bend and sway in the wind. Leaves collect around a dog squatting to relieve itself, its owner patiently waiting with a plastic bag in her hand. 

“I don’t think I want to pretend”, she whispers. 

Paul looks at her. “It’s not pretending”, he says. “There was always something there.” 

“It would be. For me.”

He doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m not even sure why I’m here.” 

“Don’t you? This was your idea.” 

“I know it was. Now I don’t know why.” 

She rises from the bench, slowly, deliberately. She sweeps the windblown hair away from her eyes and looks down at him. “I have to go”, she says. 

He stands up, looks down at her. “Will I ever see you again?” 

“I don’t know.”

She walks away without another word. She senses that Paul is watching her but she dare not look back. She can’t afford a moment of weakness. Not this time. The wind picks up, blows dead leaves around her feet. The further she walks along, the less of the park she sees, and more inside herself. She remembers how things used to be, before the parties, before dates, before marriage, before Paul, before anything. Such innocence then, when none of this even mattered. One can just be. She looked different now. Not worse. Just different. She thought about being beautiful. She had been. Once. Paul showed her that she still is. She knows that now, but she also knows she does not need him to. She thought about what it meant to be wanted, what it meant to be seen, and she’s okay with that. The afternoon was nothing. A mere interlude along the path of the remainder of her life. She can face that now. She no longer needs to pretend