She came down the hill and sat down on the gray bench in the shade of an ancient oak beside a man who looked to have completed many circles himself.
After she had stared up at the carnival on the hill for a while she decided to try and break the ice, only it seemed to her that if there ever had been ice between them it had long since melted. It was as if the two of them were floating along on the remnants of their initial and by default, cold, meeting.
There was now a peace and pleasantness between them that, she decided, could not be improved upon.
And so she spoke not a word.
That night when the old widower went to bed he remembered the pleasant time he spent with her on the bench some 40 years ago or today.
It was so hard to tell because he went there everyday and if by chance a woman joined him it was always the same thing. She stayed and smiled with sun or gray clouds in her eyes and sometimes she looked as if she wanted to speak but she did not. Something wonderful, unfathomable seemed to hold back the warm breath of every single woman who ever joined him on that old gray bench beneath the ancient oak.