I have seen this lady a couple of times now, as it turned out, always on the 16th of the month, always at 2:30 in the afternoon. There always seemed to be purpose in her visit. Her visage purposeful.
On this summers day, she looked so beautiful in her pink summer calf length frock. I looked at my watch and decided to take my break. Life in the gardens for staff could be hard physical work and for me, a young guy on placement from horticultural college, this was my life. It was all I ever wanted to do.
Anyway, this day I followed her, slowly. She followed a purposeful path towards the rhododendrons. The gardens were looking radiant. The sun was high and she was wearing her wide brimmed hat.
Watching, I struggled to believe my eyes. This vision of beauty lying on the bench, her hat lying on the floor. Her body open to the world. Slowly, deliberately she trailed her hands down her body. Her breasts heaving, her nipples a dark dusky pink matching some of the flowers. Her fingers rolling, pinching, tugging her peaks. Something powerful was driving her. She was biting her lip, her face a picture, that if captured would move any man, or woman. Having led herself so far, her magical fingers danced down her tummy. Her legs parted, her own trimmed bush, equalling the best topiary within the garden. Her legs parted and fingers found their way deep in her form, her sheath swallowing her fingers, her breath catching. Pushing herself closer and closer, her intensity building, until her scent was released and until her song rose on the air struck silent by the illicit beauty, I watched her, no, heard her commune with the spirits of ecstasy and her husband.
Then tears fell.
After what seemed like an age, she returned along the pathway. I was torn between following her and going to the bench to enjoy her scent. Her scent was the magnet that day and forever will be.
Sitting on the bench, I noticed the memorial sign. It seems that all of the benches in the Botanical gardens are left in memory of individuals who have found different spots within the gardens ... their special place.
Sitting there, my mind a riot of thoughts and feelings lost in a beautiful world, my boss caught me. He thought I had been sleeping on the job and my heart sank. What could I say? Surely I could not tell him I was transfixed by the woman masturbating in public.
My parents had always drummed into me the fact that honesty was the best policy, on all occasions. I confess, this was going to be a hard sell.
I was struggling to know what to say. My boss, the manager of the gardens, put his arm around my shoulder.
“Son,” he said, "I know what you are struggling to say. Did you read the inscription on the bench?"
I nodded not sure of what was happening.
In memory of my beloved husband, 6/16/2016
My Father said, “When the bench was placed here, having given a sizeable donation to the gardens, she asked for a special consideration - that at 2:30 on the 16th of every month she be allowed time and space to visit the bench in privacy and spend time communing with her husband. And 2:30 pm on the 16th of June 2007 was the day he proposed in this space.”
My father went on to say “Son, when you look at a garden, it is not simply a bunch of flowers strewn together. It is the sacred space of life itself.”
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