carefully everywhere descending by L.B. Bedford

prettiest; the sky is still mostly gray and the air is chilly due to yesterday’s rain, but it feels good to walk through the path lined by slowly blossoming trees and leafy plants. A couple of joggers pass by me, and one Rollerblader, but otherwise it’s quiet. Peaceful.
    I’m approaching one of the benches that are positioned every so often on the walking path when I see a hunched-shouldered man occupies it. He straightens as I get nearer and takes a long slug of clear liquid in a plastic Coke bottle. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
    I recognize him, though I can’t immediately place from where. It hits me with a bolt of shock about the same time he looks over and catches sight of me: it’s Mitchell, from the gelato shop. He does a small double take. I see recognition likewise dawn on his face, and I know he can tell that I recall him and how I last saw him.
    For a few heartbeats, I stare at him and he stares at me, each of us uncomfortably aware that we’re acquaintances, sort of, who last saw each other under unsavory circumstances and neither sure how to proceed.
    Finally, I go to the bench and sit gingerly on the opposite edge from him.
    â€œSo… how are you?” I say.
    He snorts bitterly and takes another swig from his bottle. “Just dandy. You?”
    â€œOh. Same.” He gives me an assessing look at that.
    â€œIt’s strange seeing you again, kid,” he says. “What’s your name?”
    â€œAudrey,” I say and then wonder if I should have given even that much personal information away to a virtual (maybe unbalanced) stranger. But I know his name, after all, so this makes it an even playing field.
    â€œIt’s peculiar seeing someone I only know from a brief, chance meeting on the worst day of my life, Audrey,” Mitchell continues. “I didn’t even want to go to that damn place. I hate ice cream, for f—for pity’s sake. That should have tipped me off, when Greg suggested it. ‘We won’t be there long,’ he said. ‘I just want to talk.’ Ha! He wanted to get me to a public place where he thought I wouldn’t make a scene.”
    Part of me wants to say “ You sure showed him ,” but I get the feeling he wouldn’t think that was funny right now.
    â€œIt was weird, sitting at those dinky tables with my best friend from college.” Mitchell seems to have an almost pathological need to keep talking and explain himself. I wonder if he has anyone else in his life he’s talked to about this yet. Or if he has anyone else in his life he can talk to at all. “In a bizarro-universe way, it reminded me of being at college and going out to the local pub together. Just this hole-in-the-wall place, overrun by stupid college students. Talking about our classes, talking about the girls in our classes….”
    I try to gauge how old he is. Late thirties? Early forties? His general unkempt air—messy hair, and a slight beard that looks like it was grown out of a disregard for shaving rather than a conscious grooming choice—all make him seem a little older than he probably is.
    â€œGreg handed me my ring on my wedding day, did you know that?” he says suddenly. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. “He stood right behind me, right at my back, and handed me the ring, knowing….”
    He takes another drink.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say softly.
    â€œI don’t know how you can do that to someone you say you care about,” he says. “And worse, how she could…. How my… Kathryn, m-my wi—” He stops and stares unseeingly off into the distance for a long pause, jaw working. His red eyes are damp.
    â€œWhen I first saw her,” he starts but can’t seem to finish the sentence. After a long pause, he continues. “We were talking about painting the master bedroom blue last week. Just last week, she was going over paint strips