«What  is  love?»   the   bookkeeper  asked,   with  a voice
measured  as  if  he  were  cataloging  new  books  among
his neatly stacked shelves.

I peered  out  the  window,  where  the  park  sat  patiently
beneath the faint light  of evening.  A single  bench  rested
under an old oak tree,  its wooden slats  worn  from years
of wear.  «Love is an empty bench,» I said.

He frowned, the words catching in his mind like unshelved
books placed in the wrong order. «Why empty?»

I turned back and offered him a smile.

«Love is not in the  emptiness  the bench endures,»  I said,
«but in the fullness, it knows, even when no one sits there.»

The bookkeeper did  not  respond  right  away.  Instead,  his
eyes drifted past me to the world beyond his books, beyond
the comfort of ink and paper.

And for a moment, I wondered if he,  too,  was thinking of a
bench once filled—of someone who sat beside him, someone
he knew long ago.