Only by the river could he be alone. On the bench by the river, by the large tree. At night, the sky was dark and the light from the city barely got through the bushes and into the park. It was too dark to see clearly and too light to see the stars: One saw the world only as black silhouettes against the dark grey sky, the tree, the bridge and the houses in a distance. Sounds from bars were carried with the wind and mixed with the quiet chuckle of the water, but the people were never to be seen. The sounds were merely faint whispers. By the river he was alone.

But is alone desirable? Yes, whispers the wind and yes agrees the leaves – but no says the drunkard under the bridge.

Further up the river the bridge stretches from one side to the other and beneath it the drunkard lives. At day he is in the Venetia of infrastructure underneath the city, at night he comes out: He lives like a rat. Is he lonely? Yes, he is, he has lost his family. His daughters, there are two of them, he has not seen them for twelve years. Still, he knows their birthdays. On their birthdays, he does not drink. Instead he sits on the rocks beneath the bridge and throws empty glances through the park. Some nights, he sees a boy on the bench, a boy all alone at night, could he be eighteen?

To the boy, there was something about this bench that made loneliness seem desirable, as if alone was the least lonely way to sit on the bench. There were stars, although they could not be seen and sometimes the moon to accompany him. Occasionally a feeling of being with someone, a girl, struck him. He could feel her soft arms resting by his own, hear her voice – an innocent voice
- It’s beautiful here, why haven’t I seen this before? she asks, so innocent, so pure.

How does blonde hair look in moonshine? How do blue eyes see in the moonshine? Who is the girl? At night he dreams of her, so real that he looks for her at day. She is Michelle and lies in her bed as he sits on the bench at night. She dreams, but not of him, she dreams of the future. Her life has been dedicated to the future, her every day except for Sundays. On Sunday morning she sleeps in, she relaxes and lives as one ought to live. On Sundays.

***

So, it is Michelle? the world asks him. It is, he must agree. But does Michelle love him? Probably, the world tells him – but he will not believe it. Why would somebody love him? But one needs no reason to love, love comes unjustified, love cannot be understood, the world tells him.

***

Michelle agreed to come to see the bench by the river. As they sat down he could feel her soft arm resting by his own, hear her voice – an innocent voice. She speaks a lot, a lot about very little.
- It’s beautiful here, why haven’t I seen this before? she asks, but does she mean it? In a distance the drunkard is climbing out of the underworld and into the park, he climbs onto the stone and gazes onto the sky, on the tree, on the river and towards the bench. There is nobody on the bench; he is still the unsurpassed god of the park, the unsurpassed lord of loneliness. Today is his daughter’s fifteenth birthday. He will not drink.