That’s him , yeah. That’s right, every day, from late morning to dusk, he sits on that bench and waits for her. I don’t know who she was. His love who left him. Or died. Disappeared. There are all kinds of stories. No one knows the truth. Except him. He comes every day with a brown bag lunch. A sandwich and a thermos filled with … I think filled with coffee. He eats the sandwich slowly. So slowly … its hurts me to watch him eating that sandwich. I can feel his loneliness in the way he eats … know what I mean? Maybe it’s just me. Because I see him every day. Yeah, I sit on this bench, opposite his. We’ve never spoken. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I exist. I come here for my own reasons. Not that a girl left me or died or disappeared or anything like that. My reasons are … I don’t know, I guess you’d call them non-specific. Look, look, he’s taking out the sandwich. Watch how he unwraps it. Slowly, methodically. Like something fragile. Something about that … it gets to me. Do you understand? And the way he feeds pieces of bread to the pigeons. It’s just … watch, watch. Nothing? Really? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe because I see him every day. Maybe because … I don’t know. And the girl. I always think about her. What if one day she shows up? What would it be like if I come here and I don’t see the old man, if there is no sandwich and no thermos, no slow careful eating … what if I didn’t have this hope and loneliness to share with the old man? If she came back … what would become of us?