The photograph is like a window through time and memory.
The old man sits alone on a park bench with his overcoat pulled tightly around him to guard against the late winter chill. The photograph, clutched in his stained fingers, trembles slightly in the breeze and with the tremor of his hand.
It is an old photo; much-handled, dog-eared around the edges, faded and smudged. A crease runs across the bottom where it might have been folded to fit in a man's wallet.
It is a candid close-up of a couple in the full blossom of youth and vigour. Their skin is bright in the spring sunlight. The young man is handsome and robust. His eyes are downcast as though lost in thought or in shyness. The young woman is turned toward him and her eyes are fixed on his face. Her lips are only inches from his cheek.
The old man sighs. His thumb gently caresses the face of the young woman in the photograph. His dry skin makes a barely discernible rasping sound as it slides across the glossy surface, tracing the curve of her face and neck and following her dark, sunlit hair flowing down to her shoulders.
He struggles to his feet and slowly walks away, embracing the short future which remains to him. On the bench, the photograph lies abandoned.
The young couple sit very close together on a park bench. The bright, spring sunlight dapples their hair and dances playfully around them. The young man holds in his hand an old photograph, his eyes are downcast as he stares at it thoughtfully. The lips of the beautiful, young woman are very close to his cheek as she seems to whisper to him.
It is a candid photo of an old man illuminated in a pale, cold, winter light. His thin, grey hair is pulled astray by a chill breeze now frozen in time. The man's face is lined by the effects of time and worry. The eyes are stiking; lost and distant, as though he is wandering a path through his memories, and only he can witness the visions there. Faint and glistening, a single tear hovers motionless on his sunken cheek.
The young man sighs. "I wonder who he is, he seems so terribly sad."
"He actually looks vaguely like you," says the young woman and giggles, her breath caressing his cheek.
"You know, you are right," he answers her and continues to stare at the faded and time-worn image in his hand.
"What would make you so sad, old man?", she asks him and her lips touch his cheek leaving a light smudge of her lipstick.
"I don't know," he answers and then looks at her. "Maybe my girl left me," he suggests and his eyes seem moist with emotion.
They continue to look at one another. Their eyes consume every nuance of the others face. Their lips are parted; close enough to share each breath.
"I don't think I could ever do that," she whispers softly and then their lips meet.
They both feel the warmth of their passion growing and their hearts beat loud and full and strong.
Moments later, they rise from the bench and, arm-in-arm, clinging tightly together, they move off toward the future that awaits them.
The photograph lies abandoned and sunlit on the bench and flutters slightly in the warm breeze. In it, an ancient and greyed couple sit close together on a park bench.