The mysterious man with bits of a faded smile

To the man in central park- hope you know that a nobody very far away thinks of you from time to time and wishes you well.

The rain left by the gloomy over-head clouds has seeped into every crevice of my jeans. I knew sitting down was a bad idea, despite the initial appearance of the inviting bench faded with bits of green paint. Sitting down was a matter of necessity though, as the line to get into the theater seemed to stretch beyond the limits of central park. The limits of the park are blurred boundary lines, not necessarily distinguishable by the untrained eye. The park seems to curve and twist in every possible direction, constantly extending its grasp for miles on end. Statues hide in the corners of the curved paths, fountains pleasantly surprise leisurely walkers, flowerbeds spring to life on any one of the park's twisted turns, and a baseball diamond appears as a mirage to park-goers and excites any sports enthusiast, if I am not mistaken. Frankly speaking, I may be mistaken for it has been a bit of time since my last visit and I may possibly be confusing my New York parks, for there are quite a few. 

My jeans have now successfully soaked up the remaining water from the bench. But my sitting down was a matter of urgency because my stomach was growling in a most frightening manner. Scarfing down my early dinner became a matter of national importance. I could imagine my hunger announced as an epidemic on the bottom of television stations or as a special news bulletin on the five o'clock news. As I peeled back the translucent tupperware lid exposing the leftover vegetables dripping in soy sauce, I became a spectator. 

I watched the young mothers strolling their new-born babies through the park, the impatient toddlers tugging at their fathers' pant legs, the determined joggers drifting at a steady pace with sleek-haired dogs panting at their sides. 

It was a one-sided observation deck - me watching the people without getting noticed myself, until my life became intersected with his. Even years later, I replay this moment over and over again in my mind recalling every detail with outstanding clarity. 

A man dressed in a knee-length dark, almost brownish black, trench coat with black pants and black shoes strides down one of central park's paths, the path temporarily given over to my keen observation. His sunken cheeks made the dark circles of his eyes more pronounced, illuminating a hollow essence to his scrawny face. The man towered well over six feet tall. It was as if I had taken his body in my hands and stretched it, for he had a lanky figure without an ounce of meat anywhere on his bones. This well-over-six-feet-tall-man seemed to be made only out of skin and bones, as if the baker that made him required no further ingredients to his recipe. 

He crossed the path before the bench, faded with bits of green paint, where I sat. His brownish-black trench coat was flapping carelessly in the wind behind him; his arms were limply swinging by his side. As he walked with large strides, I put down my soy-sauce soaked vegetables to provide a heartfelt, sympathetic glance in his direction, trying to understand what he was going through. He craned his head to the side, looking at me, gathering a sympathetic stranger's glance in his pocket. 

I smiled - showing no teeth, hiding my dimples that were buried in the top creases of my cheek, yet I smiled hoping it would do some good, hoping the minute intersection of our lives would do something, anything, to change his day for the better. 

I can entertain the countless conjectures of why this man was strolling through the park on that particular day and in that particular place with such a gaunt face twisted in horrific grief. Marital strife may have forced him to race out of his house that will now forever become associated with familiar one-sided screaming matches. I can picture him dropping his brown briefcase, when his wife set down divorce papers on the worn-down coffee table. At the word "divorce," the mysterious man let go of his life, allowing a flood of papers to spill out of the briefcase. Words swelled up in him, yet sputtered and died before they could ever be spoken. He just looked at her in wide-eyed disbelief, silently begging her to reconsider. He didn't know what went wrong over the years. She felt neglected, he knew that. But wasn't he the one who got glossed over and forgotten at Christmas parties? Didn't he have to put dinner on the table, while she worked late nights at the resource center? Of course, he didn't mind the late nights and would lovingly put ten inch, soft, white candles for dinner on the table that would melt down to mere stubs before she even got home. But, how dare she feel this way -  he had all the right to complain of neglect and unhappiness, not her. Not this woman, soon to be his ex-wife, who had yelled about chipped china and broken silverware. Not her. Did he really make it that easy for this woman to walk in and out of his life without the least bit of hesitation? 

He. Couldn't. Think. He. Couldn't. Breathe. He. Ran. ran out of the door and into the crowded streets filled with grocery bags and empty taxis. 

Or he could be mourning the loss of a beloved friend...or the man in the newspaper article who flung himself off of a rooftop in the business district...or the pile-up of receipts and bills on the marble kitchen counter that he could never afford to pay. 

Nevertheless, he followed the swift current of pavement to that particular path in central park on that particular day. And he smiled back. With his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, he smiled back. 

Author's Note

please pay attention to the tense of the story- feel like i jump around a lot between past and present tense. does it work? or is it just confusing?
also, should i keep the second to last paragraph at the end? starting with "or he could be mourning..."