By Darren Condron

One day, like any other, a great lump of a man went down the town as he usually does, to see his friend, to sit with her as always. But she was not there. He waited. She did not arrive.

They had spent many days together on that bench, talking, laughing, judging, sitting in silence.

Sylvia never said much. A soft laugh, a quiet “hmm,” a simple nod of the head. Perhaps that was why they got on so well. Big Lump was a large, heavy man, known to be contrary and quick to snap. People kept their distance.

But Sylvia was a newcomer, quiet and peaceful, sometimes called harmless. She never argued. She only sat and listened and so their friendship grew. She was slight, always in a long coat, always with a gentle smile.

Every day, her presence was the highlight of his day. Rain or shine, if she was there, he was glad.

The townspeople noticed a change in Big Lump when they started sitting together. He still ignored them, as usual, but there was something softer about him now. One woman said she saw him offer Sylvia a chip and she accepted.

A week before, the butcher across the street had seen him pass by, gripping his old wooden walking-stick in one hand and something else in the other. The butcher, ever nosy, had leaned out of his door. It was a rose, thorns intact, rough and jagged, picked from a garden, perhaps a Valentine’s gift. Sylvia smiled and took it.

*

Big Lump sat on the bench. Waiting.

People came and went. The butcher stood in his doorway, smoking. A woman with a pram passed, caught his eye and then looked away.

Sylvia did not come to sit that day. He waited and waited.

A tap on his shoulder. He turned. It was the butcher.

“Big Lu—” the man began, then paused. The name had been used mockingly by the townspeople.

“Eric,” he said, using the name he’d nearly forgotten.

“Where’s Sylvia?” Big Lump grunted.

The butcher hesitated, eyes downcast. “Eric,” he said softly, “Sylvia, she is gone.”

The words did not land.

“Where were you the last few days?” the butcher asked. “We thought you’d vanished. Sylvia missed you terribly.”

Big Lump looked up. “Sick,” he muttered. “I was sick.”

The butcher sat beside him now.

“Eric,” he said again, more quietly, “do you understand?”

A jolt of the shoulders. “Sylvia,” Big Lump demanded. “Where is she?”

The butcher exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “Right,” he murmured. “You didn’t know, then.” He sighed, as if weighing whether to say more, or to say anything at all.

*

Weeks passed, Big Lump was unseen for a long time. Some said they had seen him buying bread in another town. Others said he had died of a broken heart, like swans do. None of it was true. He was at home.                                                                                            

Looking out at the town would not have been the same without his good friend, his only friend.

Spring came, as did the early misty mornings. The town was waking up, some heading to work, some walking dogs, others grabbing coffee. Through the clearing fog, a figure sat at the top of the town, looking out like a watch-guard.

That morning Big Lump had left his home for the first time in weeks. He made his way through the town and took his seat.

That day, he was the talk of the town.

Big Lump was back!

The butcher, opening up that morning, looked around with a cigarette in his mouth, nearly smoked to the butt

He took the keys from the shutters, tossed away his cigarette, and walked over.
Big Lump barely acknowledged him as he did. 

He took a seat beside him, leaving a space between them. Big Lump pulled a frowning look, his expression wordlessly questioning the moment. The butcher said nothing. He simply sat, and watched as the town stirred awake, heads turned from moving cars and walkers glanced in passing. They sat in silence, all that was heard was the town’s murmur.

*

On days when the butcher could not sit with him, someone else usually sat, in silence, the woman with the pram. Sometimes the postman, if only for a minute.

In time, Big Lump returned mostly-to-himself, laughing at those drifting through the town, judging, sometimes mocking. Those who sat beside him listened to his low, mumbled words. 

People rarely spoke of Big Lump now. They spoke of Eric.

                                                                 *   *   *

Darren Condron is a Multimedia Graduate at Dublin City University, with a background in fine art and art history. Passionate about storytelling across film, literary fiction, and emerging media. His writing has appeared in The College View and online literary journals.