“Oi, grandad, pass the fuckin’ ball will ya!”

The old man glanced at the group of lads but carried on shuffling along the wet, shining path. 

The ball rolled past him. 

He lifted his eyes from the sodden path. The sun had come out at last. There, ahead, above the glistening roof line, were three spires set against a newly blue sky. Well I'm blowed, he said to himself. Never noticed that before. After all these years walking through the park. Three of them. I must have seen they were there but I never noticed.

The footballing boys were circling.

“Oi. I’m talking to you, you deaf sod."

“Hey, ol’ man, is you dis-in' my mate?”

The old man carried on, still gazing ahead at his new discovery, ignoring the boys. Why respond? What use would it be? There was a time ...   Anyway, he'd become used to being invisible to the world or playing up to some kid’s clumsy need for peer approbation.

Now he was lying on the path, his face resting sideways on the wet. He could see, on its black surface, pinpricks, tiny lights glittering like stars. As he tried to lift his head an iridescent sheen, a rainbow, shot across the oily, wet tar. “Oh!” he gasped.

“Oi. That was me leg. You could’ve broken it! Stupid old bugger!” The boy who tripped him was shouting at him. 

He lay there on the sparkling path, his body curled foetus-like, thinking. There was a time he’d have done something, at least said something. But no. This was the world he was in and he’d learned that there was nothing he could do that would change it. Nothing.

The pack moved away, jeering still, whooping, kicking the ball in front of them, exhilarating in their group identity, not looking back.

Unwinding slowly, he tried to haul himself to his feet. Was that rasping sound coming from him? Breathing was painful. He crawled and stumbled to a nearby bench and eased himself on to it. His hands took hold of his knees and then his body was moving forward and backward with each rasping breath.

After a minute or two he stopped and looked up across the park. There were the boys, a long way away now. And there was a figure moving past them, well, through them, but they didn't seem to notice. It was coming towards him. He tried to focus on it. Ah. It’s a whatdyacallit, a jogger. The figure was female. Oh! How she seemed to glide over the ground, hair bobbing in counterpoint to her shoulders, swaying from side to side in the easy movement of her running. Oh, what lightness in her stride, what ease! He could see her more distinctly now. He watched her long lycra-clad legs move to the same swaying rhythm, the curve from her hips to her waist to her breasts so beautiful, so … perfect. The old man gasped, transfixed. 

Then the jogger was there, standing in front of him. She was looking at him and smiling. Oh! I think I know her. “I think I know you,” he whispered. He began to stand, his eyes fastening on hers. ’Yes, you do,’ the beautiful young woman replied, ‘You’ve always known me.'  Then she reached out with her hands, gripping each of his shoulders and pulled him firmly, easily, towards her. He smiled up at her as she did so. "Thank you. Oh thank you!" he said and the ice of her touch searched through each and every part of his body. 

The figure of the old man sank back gently onto the bench.