Morning Seeping Over the Bag's Handle

The morning sun settled lukewarm along the back of the bench. Between the other's knee and his own, there was a spot where a single ginkgo leaf had rolled in and rustled to a stop. He sat holding his bag. He should have set it on the bench, but it seemed that the moment he let go of the handle, the gap between them would show itself plainly. The other pulled their sleeves down against the autumn wind and looked at the sky. It was a park morning that went quiet again after each gust. Instead of setting the bag down, he kept it on his lap, rubbing a crease in the leather with his thumb. The edge of the other's sleeve brushed the back of his hand, little by little. In the end he stood the bag on its side and did not place it between them. Instead he loosened his grip on the handle in his lap and let the wind pass through. When the sleeve's edge brushed the back of his hand again, he thought it was the wind he had caught, not the bag. Even then he kept his hand on the bag, watching only for the moment to set it down.