The couple was seated on her bench – her bench!
She saw them as soon as she emerged from the corner of the paved walkway that was partially covered by a large molave tree.
It was, of course, a public bench, in a public park, but Miss Villar had always considered that particular bench hers, and hers alone. She'd sat on it from four in the afternoon to six in the early evening every Sunday, for nineteen years; nineteen years of Sundays would certainly earn anyone some right of ownership.
The couple on the bench was, clearly, unaware of her presence; in fact, they seemed unaware of everything around them. Much like the romance novels Miss Villar was secretly addicted to, the couple only had "eyes for each other." Their heads were close, the young man's lips only a breath away from his novia's ear, his arm firmly set around her shoulders, their free hands joined over her lap – certainly marks of ownership that were more visible than Miss Villar's "nineteen years of Sunday afternoons."
She straightened her back and drew herself up to her full height of not quite five feet and resolutely strode – to her bench.
"Excuse me," she said, softly, "but you are sitting on my bench."
The young man looked up, his eyes registering mild surprise; the girl, however, did not even bother to look at Miss Villar, she merely burrowed her face deeper into her boyfriend's chest.
"So we are and what of it?" his voice was slightly slurred.
"Could he possibly be drunk?" Miss Villar thought, but there was no smell of alcohol around, unless one counted the rather pungent fragrance of the girl's perfume.
"Well, if you two will leave, I can sit on my bench."
"Ma'am, there are scores of other empty benches around; surely, you can sit on any one of them," the young man replied, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, painted on his lips.
"That is true," Miss Villar answered. "I can sit on any one of them, but I prefer to sit on this bench."
The smile was beginning to fade from the young man's face. He shifted uneasily in his seat.
"Ma'am, we’ve been here for over an hour, way before you came," he looked at his watch on the arm that was on the girl's shoulders, "and what does this bench have over the other benches in the park?"
"I told you… that is my bench."
"How can it be – your bench – when it doesn't even have any name on it, unless your name is PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF MANILA." His knuckles were now showing white over his novia's shoulders.
"No, it is not, but that isn't your name, either. So, may I have my bench back now, please?"
The young man drew in a slightly pained breath.
"We are not moving from this bench, and nothing and no one can make us leave it," he answered firmly.
He drew his novia closer, lifted her face with his free hand, and kissed her quite passionately. He stole a glance at his Miss Villar and felt a slight thrill of victory at the stunned look on her face. He closed his eyes again and kissed the young girl even deeper. She sighed against his lips and snuggled her tiny frame even closer to him.
Just then, a loud clap of thunder startled everyone in the park; people started running in every direction as the wind picked up.
Umbrellas of different sizes and colours began popping open across the park, as the downpour began; huge drops began to dot the dry grey pavement of the walkways that encircled the green. The rain gathered strength quickly and soon the whole park was enveloped in a whitewash of wetness.
"Hon, I'm cold," the girl moaned, finally lifting her head, they looked around – Miss Villar was gone.
The pair stood up, drenched from head to foot, and with their arms around each other, ran across the green field, laughing at their temerity.
Miss Villar watched them leave from behind the molave tree. She made her way to the now-empty bench – her bench – and sat, victorious, holding a large red umbrella over her greying head, while around her, the rain played a symphony of staccato drum beats. She smiled.
One did not just throw away nineteen years of Sundays.
DoubleSpeak 