FAÇADE, 4
“Wanna go to the park after we visit Mom tomorrow?” he asks last second.

Halfway to closing the door, I mumble, “Sure.” 

Ray fires two more shots as I enter the house to resume some overdue cuddling with two twins.



The Long Brooke Park consists of six possible pathways along fresh-cut grass, tree-shadowed picnicking hills, and a small stream leading to a miniature waterfall underneath a photoesque bridge. Each pathway is a mile longer than the last, ranging from a mile to six. The more extensive pathways lead to a well-kept sidewalk, bike path, and in some locations, a small transcendental walkway. 

The center of the park, by comparison to the outskirts, is a generic playground for both young romances by night and elderly couples by day. Save the bridge, nothing really stands out, and perhaps that is the reason Ray brings me here. Or he figures I won’t kill him in a public area.
Up ahead is a set of benches; around them, children play with toys or even the picnic sets. A few people read, though not many. Joggers blast by on the longer path, leaving cold gusts in their trails. 

Ray’s dressed in the usual gear: torn jeans and a dress shirt. He says, “Look at all of them.”

More joggers pass by, and soon to pass a little further behind is a redheaded jogger, whom I follow with my eyes.

Ray adds, “All these people cluttering around this cookie-cutter park, smiling and playing with their kids. Kissing their loved ones.”

“All I see is an epicenter of façades,” I tell him. “All these people gossiping, pretending to listen to each other until it’s their turn to speak again. Showing the world how much better their lives are than everyone else’s.”
“See, Mike, that’s where you’re wrong.” He leans back on the bench and stares at the shapeless clouds. “These people are happy. They aren’t playing face. They are listening to each other. There’s love. There’s friendship.”

“There’s a lot of bullshit,” I counter. “Nothing about these people reveals anything true and worth knowing.”

Ray turns his head towards me and replies, “People aren’t going to project their flaws, you know. Of course they’re gonna flaunt whatever makes them happy. What makes them feel significant.”

The redheaded jogger nears the bench, her body glistening under a layer of sweat. She wipes away the grease from her face and adjusts her headphones at the bench next to us.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Ray asks.

“And say what?” I ask him back. I can’t imagine having anything in common with such a stunning woman. “What, talk about the weather? What’s my plan? Besides, you’re the one who thinks I’m a womanizer.”

“I dunno,” Ray says. “Just talk about exercise or something. Tell her you always see her jogging around here and wanted to say hello to a somewhat familiar face.”

“Step one, according to you, is lie. Step two is – what – approach her like a creep?”

“No, it’s called breaking the ice.”

“And then what?” I ask. “How do I introduce myself? How can I maintain conversation with her?”

“Just . . .”​
1    2    3    4    5    6    7    8​