A bench stands beside a little paved path. Between the slits where the cobblestones meet, tufts of green grow. The path winds through grassy lawns, meticulously cared for. Rosebushes and Rhododendrons are planted in little islands across the lawn. Multicoloured flowers are arranged in patterns. Some of the less visited corners of the park have grown wilder than the more frequented ones. The bench is in one of those corners.

A bench stands beside a little paved path in a park. Nailed onto the bench is a little brass plaque. If you approach it, you can see a name engraved on it. Beth, it says.

In the afternoons a man sits on the bench. He has never missed an afternoon of sitting on the bench. When the sun shines, he sits there. The only sound is the chirping of the birds hidden from sight in the trees.

When rain pours down, he sits there. Even though the bench is wet and subsequently he gets wet too. When it rains there is an earthy smell in the air and after the downpour, the park is filled with the incessant sound of water dripping from the branches and leaves of the trees.

When it snows, he sits there. The white blanket crunching below his feet every time he makes a step. Then the park is bare, the trees naked. The bench covered in a white film.

Every afternoon a man and his wife sit on the bench. They talk. About this and that. And then the man goes away, to return the next day. And then they talk again.

If by any chance, you happen to pass that bench on any afternoon, you will see a man sitting and talking. You will not see his wife. You will think that he is talking to himself. You will be wrong. For she is there. Her name is engraved on the little brass plaque.

A bench stands beside a little paved path in a park. No man sits there. Nailed to the bench are two brass plaques. If you approach, you can see a name engraved on each. Beth, one says.

The other bears the name of a man.