There is something alluring about the two of them that makes you not want to look away. Is it the way they lock hands: his grips the underside of her lower arm, slight above her wrists, letting hers dangle; or could it be the way they communicate: both wearing face masks to prevent the spread of the dreaded virus. You can almost see their eyes move, even though you lurk at a reasonable distance there is no way you can capture whatever is said between them.
It doesn't take away what was obvious. They are two young people who are very much in love.
Is it okay if we trail after them? Why not—it's not as though you and I have anything better to do. The world has gone to shit since the year began. Many are calling this the end of times, so we might as well feel fine about it.
They stroll along one of the park's leisure walkways, swinging their hands as only star-struck lovers would do in movies. They look so enraptured with each other. They could have been the last two people to fall in love in the city, and even that would look far romantic and poetic than anything I could pen down.
I am not the only one aware of their presence. I observe other people glancing at their direction. One of such persons—a mature-looking woman—looks toward me, as though calculating in her mind that they are a celebrity couple with me as their bodyguard. I maintain an adequate distance behind them. My eyes roam the scenery, making like I was some college student enjoying an afternoon outdoor stretch, while keeping my focus on the couple.
Have I any idea who they are?
The answer is a brilliant no.
Nor can I lay claim to have known or recognize them from somewhere before.
New York is that big a city where you can live for years and know nothing of your next-door neighbor, even on the onset of an earthquake. There's no way I can make out their face behind their mask. I can attest that they are in their twenties. You can almost perceive an aura of cupid love hovering above their heads. Theirs is the sort of love inconsequential to heartbreaks or even diseases. Diseases of the heart, or in this case, fucking COVID-19.
They look like the type of love that's built to last. Like a tree standing tall against the wind. If you're me, you can't help feeling some mighty sense of joy witnessing this type of love here in Central Park.
As they walk, they have come to a junction and are undecided of which route to take. At least that's what I assume, but I am wrong. The woman stops to give her lover a kiss. He is two inches taller than she, and she has to lean forward while pulling his head downward toward hers, cocking her face to their side. He has his arm around her waistline.
Their lips touch behind the mask.
The world stops to give them their moment.
As for myself, I try to abate my eyes but too late. I soak in the moment of their love, as I am now a part of them.
They pull back from each other—the love glimmers in the woman's eyes as then she takes the young man's hand and leads him further into the park. I wait till they have gone farther before taking up after them.
Now and then, either of them gestured toward something in front of them. The young man then points toward a building beyond a crown of trees overlooking Fifth Avenue. Is that where they reside? Or maybe he knows someone living there. Someone recently deceased from the virus?
I go along with the couple until I can continue no more; to press on with them would them becoming aware of my presence. I bid them adieu in my mind and head for home. The thought of poetry no longer dwells on my mind.