On a perfectly cloudless middle-of-the-spring morning, a tall, middle-aged man with a camera around his neck stood on the platform waiting for the 7:05 to take him into the city. A slight breeze ruffled the man’s hair. The man stuck one of his large hands in the side pocket of his corduroy trousers, and as he paced along the platform his camera swayed slightly on its thick canvas strap. Across the railroad tracks stood several two-story apartment buildings. One of them had a small garden plot near the entrance, a bed of young tulips. The pale-yellow blooms wobbled slightly in the chilly breeze. On a neighboring street, a trio of not-quite-teenaged girls were walking to school. Just then an express train out of the city rushed by, not stopping at this little suburban loading platform. Through the viewfinder of his camera, the man watched the tulips in the gap beneath the rushing railroad cars, but he didn’t press the button. When the train passed the girls were gone.

“Late as usual.” A short man offered this observation. “Going downtown to get some snaps?” he added. The man with the camera nodded. “Well, there she is.” The small man pointed his furled umbrella down the track. The lights of an approaching train could be seen blinking in the distance. The man with the umbrella smiled. “What’d I tell you?” he said, and the man with the camera turned to look in the other direction: Curving streets, well-kept old houses, heavy green, dew-covered lawns. One of the nearest houses had a row of bright red tulips along the parkway. The red was soft and solid as old-fashioned lipstick. And now a car was pulling up to the curb. A taxi. A woman got out. A young woman, barely more than a girl, in a short dress. She stood at the window, paying the driver. Apparently she was having some problems getting the right amount of money, or maybe it was the change. Ah, it was that the window wouldn’t roll down, so the taxi driver had to open the door, but the woman was standing too close. And here was the train, rolling to a stop at the platform.

The man with the camera turned to board the train, but then he turned back, to see how the young woman was doing. She was running up the little hill, crossing twenty feet of dewy grass which led up to the platform. She had blue eyes and curly blond hair. Her smallish breasts bobbled as she hurried up the slope. She slipped. The woman was sitting on the grass, her legs veed out in front of her. Crows cawed. Otherwise everything was quiet.

The woman had a surprised look on her face. She had her arms propped against the grass behind her. She was sitting on the up-slope at an angle which allowed the man’s eyes to glide all the way up the inside of her legs to the apex of her underwear.

“Just a second,” the man said to the conductor. The conductor waved. The man strode quickly down the small embankment to the woman.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

She nodded. But she had tears in her eyes, down her cheeks. Pretty blue eyes. Soft clean cheeks. She was young—early twenties.

“Here, let me help you,” the man said. He offered his hand. The woman grabbed his hand. He started to pull her up. The camera around his neck swung forward and struck the woman right in the middle of her forehead. She cried out and let go of the man’s hand and sat back down in the grass. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I’m...” He took his camera from around his neck and set it carefully on the damp grass next to the woman.

“It’s okay,” the woman said, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand. “You’d better go. You’d better catch your train.”

“Come on, I’ll help you up,” the man said.

“No, just go,” the woman answered. “I can’t go like this. I’m all wet. I mean my dress. It’s soaked. Just go. I’ll be all right.”

The man turned to wave the train on its way, but it was already pulling out.

“I guess they didn’t want to wait for us anyway,” the man said. “Don’t worry. There’ll be another one in twenty minutes or so. I think they run all the time in rush hour.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman said. “I can’t go like this. I’d miss my interview anyway. It’s too late.” She was rubbing her forehead. The skin was broken. A scratch. A broken line of bright, lipstick red. It looked a little like Morse Code. Dash dot dash.

“You’re cut,” the man said. “It’s my fault. I’m so stupid. I wasn’t thinking about my camera.” He looked down at his camera on the grass.

“I don’t think it’s too bad,” the woman said. “It doesn’t hurt. But my dress—it’s soppy where I’m sitting. You wouldn’t think plain old grass could be so wet.” She laughed—half laugh, half cry.

“Can I help you up?” the man said. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Maybe I should just sit here. Maybe I should sit here forever.”

“You should get that cut taken care of,” the man said.

“Thanks,” the woman said, “but I just don’t feel like moving right now.” She was fumbling in her purse. “You don’t happen to have some Kleenex do you?”

“I’ve got some lens paper in my camera bag.” The man squatted next to the woman and unzipped the camera bag. “It’s awfully thin,” he said, offering a small square of the lens cleaning paper.

She used the tissue to dab her eyes and cheeks. “You’re right,” she said. “It is thin.” She tried to smile. “I feel such a fool.”

“It’s not your fault,” the man said. He stood up, and then he offered his hand again. The woman took it. He helped her to her feet. She was light, young, hardly more than a girl. A very pretty girl. Once she was standing, the man let go of her hand. Together they walked the few steps up the hill to the train platform.

“So you were going downtown for a job interview?” the man said.

“Yes,” the girl said.

“Maybe you could call them, reschedule.”

“I don’t think so,” the girl said. “They’ll probably tell me ... I don’t know.”

“Call them,” the man said.

“You sound like my father.” The girl laughed. But she made the call. The man waited. “It’s okay,” she said, wiping her face again. “They said I could come in same time tomorrow.”

“Great,” the man said.

“Yeah, I guess,” the girl said. “But I probably won’t get the job anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really have any experience.”

“Well, I think you’ll get it.”

“Really? How come?”

“I don’t know. I just think you should.”

“Well, that’s nice of you.”

“I’m sorry I clunked you with my camera.”

The woman felt her head. “Is it still bleeding?”

“No, I think it’s just a scrape.”

“Does it look awful?”

“I think you should get it washed off. Maybe a Band-Aid.”

“It looks awful.”

“No. I’m not saying that.”

“What are you saying?”

“No sense in taking chances with germs.”

“Now you sound like my mother,” the woman said. She laughed again.

“Sorry,” the man said.

“That’s okay,” the woman said. “Two parents for the price of one. A bargain. So how come your camera has germs?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t that I know of.”

“What have you been doing with that camera?”

“Just taking pictures.”

“Ah, pictures. What kind of pictures?”

The man thought about how to answer that question.

“Dirty pictures?” The girl laughed. “Is that why there’s germs?” She wiped her eyes again. Her forehead.

The man didn’t say anything.

“Don’t tell me you really do take pictures of ... dirty pictures?”

“No,” the man said.

“Sure, sure,” the girl said. “It’s okay. We’re adults here. You can tell me. I won’t blab.”

“I take pictures of buildings mostly,” the man said. “And sometimes trees. Things that touch the sky. Never people.”

“Never people? Not even with their clothes on? That seems strange. Don’t you like people?”

“People are okay.”

“But you don’t take pictures of them? Not even of your kids?”

“I don’t have any kids.”

“Why not?”

The man laughed. A small soft laugh. “I don’t have a wife, for one thing.”

“But if you had kids, would you take pictures of them?”

The man was thinking again.

“Or is it a religious thing?”

“If I had kids,” the man said after a while, “If I had kids I guess I’d take pictures of them.”

“What kind of pictures would you take?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The usual kind.”

“What are the usual kind?”

“Playing. Eating birthday cake. Walking to Sunday school.”

The man and the woman had walked several blocks from the train platform.

“Sunday school,” the girl said. “So you’d send your kids to Sunday school?”

“Sure, why not? Didn’t you go to Sunday school?”

The girl laughed. “Not for very long. Not after my parents split up. Maybe that was the best thing about my parents separating. I didn’t have to go to Sunday school.”

“What was wrong with Sunday school?”

“I don’t remember. The Bible stories just seemed too silly. And who cares about racing through the Bible to be the first to find the book of Hezakiah or Ezekial? And cutting out those paper chickens and bunnies and pasting them in scrapbooks. It was more like kindergarten. Give me a break.”

“So what did you do on Sundays after you didn’t go to Sunday school?”

“Watch TV. Play the radio. Read Sweet Valley High. I don’t know. Fun stuff.”

“Really?”

“I guess it wasn’t that much fun. Mostly I guess me and my friends just goofed around. Talked about teachers and boys and what not.”

“I’m sorry your parents split up.”

“Yeah ... well ... One thing, I didn’t get too many pictures taken of me after that. But I didn’t really like having my picture taken. One time my mom had this neat idea for a Christmas card. I think I was five, and she made this angel costume for me and had my dad put this hook on the ceiling near the Christmas tree. They put this rope over the hook, and I was supposed to be suspended like a little angel. I had wings and a halo and everything. It was so stupid and uncomfortable. And the picture never did get taken because the ceiling fell in. I guess I was too heavy for it. I was chubby back then. It was probably hilarious, but my mom and dad screamed at each for days. At least it seemed like that. And I felt guilty because if I hadn’t been so fat ... After that I never wanted to have my picture taken.”

“Well, you’re certainly not fat now.”

“Right. I don’t have wings or a halo, either.”

“You look like an angel.”

“What?” the girl said. “I’m sorry, but sometimes you speak so soft.”

“I said, ‘You look like an angel.’”

“Oh. Oh, sure, an angel with a dirty dress.”

They had stopped, but now they continued the walk.

“Is it still wet?” the man asked.

“Very.”

“Maybe if we walked more in the sun.”

“Yes, that would be good. Where are we going, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Just walking.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t know. Just walking is okay. Aren’t you going to want to go back and catch the next train? Photograph those buildings and things?”

“The buildings will still be there tomorrow. Anyway there’s a park up here with I think a drinking fountain. You could use it to wash off your forehead.”

“Germs from your camera. Your naughty pictures.” The girl laughed. “But I don’t have a Kleenex or a towel.”

“You could use the sleeve of my shirt. It’s flannel. Clean.”

“That’s very kind of you. You’re a really nice man. You should have some kids. I bet you’d be a good daddy.”

The man didn’t say anything.

“And if you had a wife, what kind of pictures would you take of her?”

They’d reached the drinking fountain. The girl bent over, took a sip of water. Then she let the water splatter against her forehead. “I don’t think I’ll need your shirt sleeve,” she said. “I think I can just drip dry. How do I look?”

The man studied her forehead.

“Maybe you could dry me with your sleeve. Just a little bit, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The man touched her forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Thanks,” the girl said. “That felt good. Do you want a drink? I’ll hold the button for you.”

“I’m not really that thirsty right now.”

“Just a little drink,” the girl said. “I’ve never held the button for anyone before.”

“Okay,” the man said.

The girl held the button while the man drank. He kept drinking until the girl let go of the button.

“You were sure thirsty,” she said.

“I guess,” he said.

“You should wipe your mouth on your sleeve.”

“I should.”

“Yes. It would be the thing to do.”

“Okay,” the man said. He wiped his mouth.

“When you were a kid did your mom tell you not to touch the drinking fountain with your lips?”

“Sounds like something she might have said,” the man replied.

“Mine did all the time. I think when I was a kid that was the biggest thing to worry about, the biggest responsibility. Not to touch my lips to the drinking fountain at school. You’d think we’d have to worry about whether the other kids touched their lips to the drinking fountain, but I guess that wasn’t our worry, that was just our parents’ worry. Once my parents split up, I don’t think they cared any more how I drank.”

“I bet they did.”

“No, they didn’t. Anyhow, now that I’m grown up, I think I’m going to touch my lips to the drinking fountain while I drink. Do you think that’s too dangerous?”

“I’m not sure ... I...”

“I bet the water tastes better that way. I’m going to find out.” The girl drank.

“Was it good?”

“Very. You should try it.”

“I don’t know. I just had a lot.”

“Are you a fraidy cat? C’mon. I’ll hold the button. It’s easy.”

The man drank.

“Wasn’t that good?”

“Pretty good.”

“Of course now you have my germs. So I guess we’re even.”

“I guess so,” the man said.

“This is a nice park,” the girl said. “It’s so peaceful. So empty. Like it’s our very own park.”

“It gets busier in the summer,” the man said. “Women with babies. Kids. Dogs.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Not too far.”

“In a house?”

“A little house.”

“But no wife, no family?”

“No.”

“That seems strange. Don’t you get lonely?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“And what do you do then ... when you get lonely?”

“Listen to music. Sometimes I go for walks.”

“Like to the park?”

“Yes.”

“And does that work? Does that make you less lonely?”

“Not usually.”

“Maybe you need another plan.”

“Plan?”

“A better way to get unlonely.”