Head in my hands I sit on the wooden bench in the gazebo, wondering why I’m letting my butt go numb on the smooth, painted surface. After what seems like hours of wondering, considering and wish I hear the sobbing start. Being a sleep deprived emotional wreck it takes a few minutes to realize it’s not me doing the bawling.

It’s a woman, petite and fragile, stumbling from the other direction from whence I came, head in her hands. If I weren’t so depressed, I’d laugh at the coincidence. As it is, I just look around, wondering if anyone else is coming from one of the remaining two directions. We could form a club.

“Oh…frak,” she says, her hands dropping away to reveal tear streaked mascara on a porcelain face. I don’t know what to say. Apparently, neither does she, as she just stands there, looking about nervously.

“You, uh, wanna’ sit?” I ask, tired of waiting out the silence, distracted from my own pain. That is the one good thing about pain, how distracting it can be, whether yours or another’s.