Five Minutes

I observe people.

That is what I do every single afternoon in this park, in the heart of Melbourne, where people pass each other without notice, care, or attention. Busy people scurry through the peaceful park, each one competing with the other to get to the tube station as soon as possible. Couples are often seen holding hands, sneaking pecks on the lips, smiling and discussing meaningless things. Joggers pass by with earphones plugging their ears; therefore they are oblivious to the world except for their own rhythmic breaths, the song, and their taut muscles working. Children laugh and run around carelessly, their exhausted parents running after them with each sigh heavier than the next.

But I always sit there and observe everyone else. If people take photographs to capture a beautiful moment, I memorize each precise moment in the back of my mind through my observations. I seem invisible to them, except to the quiet little boy who always sits next to me, clutching his red teddy bear that is missing one eye, the other tugging in a string to the hole that appears above its nose.

“Hello,” I say to him, and he grins at me. He rubs one thumb against mine wordlessly, choosing me to decide who we will be observing today. My eyes quietly travel across a young woman stumbling into the park, just beside the tall oak tree. She has golden hair, her bangs covering her eyes. She is wearing an old coat over faded jeans and boots, and we both can see that she is sighing. A shaggy overweight dog runs around her, stubbing her toe each time and making her squirm each time he paws her.

The little boy lets out a gurgle of laughter. I smile. “That dog’s cute.”

“She walks funny,” he says to me. “Why does she walk funny?”

“She is a dancer, my dear,” I say, watching her toes rise every time she takes a step, and how straight her back is, her hair tied into a loose bun, and her graceful feet never really hit the ground firmly. “She’s a ballerina.”

“Oh?” the boy seems fascinated by my observation. It will be his turn next. We each compete to find facts. Five minutes will be all it takes, to know about a person from our inspection. It is our little game, like a spy watching his target. The boy watches as the dog jumps on the young lady, his soft paw hitting her knee. The woman winces.

“She’s hurt,” the boy says proudly.

“Hmmm.” I watch again closely. Yes, I notice. She winces every time the dog touches her, and as she reaches inside her bag for her phone, she turns around and I can see that she has a black eye. “Someone might be abusing her, son.”

The boy looks at me questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody is hitting her,” I say. The woman answers her phone and her face tightens as she listens to the voice in the other line. For a second I can sense fear in her eyes. She quickly tosses the phone bag to her bag and walks faster.

“She looks very nervous, doesn’t she?” the boy asks me. “She keeps fidgeting.”

“Someone at her house might be hitting her occasionally,” I decide, “That is why she looks so afraid.”

The boy gets bored easily, so he turns to a couple beside the Victorian bench, just beside the rose bushes. “They are fighting,” he declares, and I look up. The man is kissing his blushing partner and pulling her into a big bear hug.

“They look happy to me,” I say, proving him wrong.

“No. Look.” The boy says stubbornly. “The woman looks like she’s just been crying. She looks as if her toy has just been taken away.”

I let out a chuckle. “Tear stains, huh?” I say. “You’re getting good at this game.”

“Maybe he hits her too,” he says, thinking hard. “Do you think he hits her?”

I squint to look at her glowing complexion, how smooth her skin looks under the golden sunshine. “I don’t think so.”

“So what does he do wrong?”

“A lot of things can get a woman mad,” I tell him wisely and laugh.

“But he loves her,” the boy tells me, as if he knows all there is to know about love.

“Love can be a complicated thing.”

Just then a woman in her twenties approaches us, her brows knitted together in worry. “Grandfather!” she calls out, “Where have you been? We’re worried sick wondering where you are!” She motions to a man in a blue coat, who sighs in relief at the sight of us, and starts walking towards us. “Come on, grandpa. Let’s go home.” She brings a bottle of water to my mouth and lets me drink from it shakily. A few drops trickle to my chin, and she wipes them away gently. I want to say something, but my throat is dry and no words can come out. I curse this disease angrily. It makes me unable to speak and move, all I can do is feel. And watch.

Before leaving, I glance back one last time at the boy with the red teddy bear. He winks and smiles at me to promise another observation tomorrow. And then my imaginary friend vanishes into thin air.

**