Bob Forrester trudged through Central Park under a stubborn gray sky that refused to rain despite October’s promises. The air was thick, and the damp breeze carried a faint scent of old leaves and forgotten memories.
He thought he’d forgotten where the fountain was—or maybe he couldn’t remember if he’d forgotten where the fountain was. But when he located it, he sighed, took a seat on a nearby bench, and waited.
An overstuffed pigeon strutted nearby, side-eyeing him, which felt oddly judgmental. Something about being stared at with one eye unsettled him, so he looked away.
He felt the weight of the letter inside his jacket pocket—a relic shoved away for years. The corners of the envelope jabbed his chest every time he moved, a nagging reminder of things he’d rather not confront.
Just then, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up: Zenith Solutions. He answered as if he’d been expecting the call from the moment he arrived.
“I’m here,” he said, trying to ignore the background noise of the fountain’s aimless splashing.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Forrester! It’s Andy. Hope you’re well.”
Andy’s voice was unnervingly cheerful, like a Cockney-bot programmed for politeness.
“I see you’ve made it to the fountain. Does it bring back memories?”
“Not really,” Forrester blurted.
“Not really? That’s disappointing. We were under the impression this place mattered a great deal,” Andy chuckled.
“It’s been years.”
“Perhaps you prefer not to remember. We can fix that. Did you bring the letter?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I brought the letter. How long is this going to take?”
“Well, that depends on you. It may take forever,” Andy’s tone shifted, still pleasant but with a bureaucratic edge. “Before we dive in, could you spare a few moments for a customer satisfaction survey? It won’t take long, promise.”
He scanned the park, half-expecting a hidden camera. Maybe even that pigeon was in on it. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” Andy replied smoothly. “Your feedback is vital to Zenith Solutions—keeps the cogs turning, you know. Now then, how would you rate your overall experience with us?”
“I’m not even sure why I selected this service,” he snapped, digging his fingers into his pockets.
Andy sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for predictable resistance. “A common conundrum. Let’s rephrase: since our first delightful conversation—you remember it, don’t you?—have you felt more enlightened with the choice you’ve made?”
“What choice?!” He shot back, frustration cracking his voice.
“You chose the Closure Optimization, did you not?” Andy said, his tone maddeningly sincere.
“Yes, closure, I think, maybe, I don’t know. Yes, I guess I’m satisfied, whatever.”
“Alright then, pressing onward.” A weariness crept in, the sound of a teacher with an unruly student. “Next question: On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with our level of engagement?”
“This is ridiculous,” Forrester muttered. “I’m not doing this. There’s been no level of engagement!”
“I see. Well, we were prepared to offer you the Emotional Asset Recovery upgrade if that would make this easier,” Andy replied, politeness now a sharp edge.
“What is the Emotional … Asset … Recovery … upgrade?”
“The survey first, Mr. Forrester. Now. True or false: I would recommend Zenith Solutions to a friend.”
Forrester mumbled something unintelligible, his nerves fraying. The pigeon edged closer, pecking at some invisible morsel.
“Mr. Forrester? Still with us?” Andy prodded.
“Yes, I’m here!” he snapped.
Andy’s voice softened. “Mr. Forrester, Zenith Solutions’ Closure Optimization may not offer the type of closure you seek, but the kind of closure you need.”
“What does that mean?!”
“Take the letter out of your pocket, Mr. Forrester. Put it in your hands.”
A chill ran down his spine. He obeyed, the letter’s weight suddenly unbearable, as if it held every past mistake he ever made.
“There it is,” Andy mused. “Your regrets, unfinished conversations, unresolved heartbreak—the entire dreadful backlog. It stymies even the most accomplished among us. But fret not, old chap. Zenith Solutions can set things right. And the wonderful thing about us is you never have to look us in the eye. We take the guilt out of guilt. Sort of.”
Forrester’s breath trembled as the letter’s edges bit into his palms. “To be frank, I left her. Here. Walked away. Just abandoned … the love of my life!”
Andy’s tone brightened, as if hearing exactly what he wanted.
“Ah, there it is. The disclosure. Always cathartic in the early stages. You left her at this very fountain. Did you even look back, Mr. Forrester? Or was the sidewalk more compelling?”
Forrester pressed his palms together, trembling.
“Perhaps it’s time to face facts,” Andy continued, almost merrily. “Isn’t that why you kept the letter? Deep down, you knew this moment would come. The letter, all these years later, Mr. Forrester! People don’t hold onto relics of indifference.”
Forrester tried to steady his breath.
Andy chuckled softly, a bureaucrat checking boxes.
“Tell me—was the so-called love of your life surprised when you dropped the bomb on her? Or did she already see the coward in you from the start? Did she cry? Tears? Did you see tears streaming down her cheeks? Or worse, did she stay quiet, sparing you the indignity?!”
Forrester shut his eyes.
“Ah, silence. That tells me plenty. Let’s move on then. Would you describe your subsequent relationships as—what’s the phrase?—‘adequate compensations’? Or have you always measured women against the one you abandoned at this fountain?”
Forrester’s hands gripped the letter until the paper crackled.
“You see, Mr. Forrester,” Andy said smoothly, “the heart is not unlike a filing cabinet. Every time you open a new drawer, you find the same old document waiting inside. Same mistake, stamped and restamped. And here you are, finally back at the source. Tell me, was it worth it?”
Forrester’s fingers skittered across the letter, a frantic spider. “Why… does it… matter?“ he asked, desperation leaking through.
“Because here at Zenith Solutions, we specialize in second chances for those brave enough to face what they left behind,” Andy replied, that maddening charm now oddly comforting. “Solutions that lead to resolutions, if you will. Now, open the letter and read it.”
“I know what it says!” he protested, resolve crumbling.
“I said, read it, Mr. Forrester. Aloud!”
Forrester’s hands shook as he unfolded the paper. The rustle was deafening. He inhaled sharply and read, “Uhhh, all right. It says, ’I still love you, Bob. And I… don’t know how to stop loving you. Please don’t let this be… the end of us.’”
The words hung between them, raw and undeniable.
“You b*****d! That woman loved you! She adored you! She would have laid down her life for you! She would have made you so much better a man than you ever deserve! You louse! You pathetic, sniveling wretch! How could you be so cruel?” Andy snapped, like a prosecutor savoring a verdict.
Forrester pulled the phone away and began to weep. The dam broke. Years of defenses washed away. He brought the phone back to his ear, but held it at a slight distance.
“Are you there? Are you listening? Tell me, Mr. Forrester, are you ready to begin anew? I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself, you bloody basketcase,” Andy sweetly but cruelly murmured. “In the meantime, what was the name of your former beau?”
“Nancy,” Forrester said, gripping his cell phone with two hands and beating back tears.
“Nancy,” Andy repeated with relish, as if testing the syllables. “Would you like us to contact Nancy? Last word was that she still loved you. She might still be out there, wasting the best years of her life waiting for a coward.”
“No.”
“No?” Andy snapped, voice dropping its syrupy coating. “Of course not. Why bother? You already rehearsed your role as deserter decades ago. Why change the script now?”
Forrester pressed the phone harder against his ear, shaking his head.
“You know what she probably remembers?” Andy pressed on. “Not your face. Not your touch. Just your back as you walked away. That’s your legacy, Mr. Forrester. A pair of retreating shoulders.”
Forrester let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a grunt.
“How pathetic,” Andy sighed, his tone returning to bureaucratic politeness. “Very well then. We have a lot of important work ahead of us. The Emotional Asset Recovery upgrade is our next best option. An extension of our Continuity Services. I highly recommend that you take advantage of the discounted offering.”
Forrester fell silent again, gathering himself.
“Take all the time you need, Mr. Forrester. Heaven knows you’ve already squandered enough of it.”
“If I say yes, what happens?” Forrester’s voice was threadbare.
“You open the door to the life you left behind for starters. But this time, you don’t walk away. No. You stay, Mr. Forrester, you face it, and maybe—just maybe—you reconcile with yourself, confirm the closure you’ve denied yourself. And once you’ve achieved…”
“I’ll do it. Please! Emotional … recovery … whatever. Sign me up,” Forrester said, while slowly spinning in a circle.
“Wise choice, Mr. Forrester. Very wise. Keep in mind, at Zenith Solutions, your highest point may be your lowest. We’ll be in touch.”
Andy hung up.
Forrester took a deep breath, his chest still tight under the weight of the years over regrets, mistakes, and long silences. He exhaled and looked around the park, taking in the faded grays and browns of early autumn.
The pigeon was still at his feet for some odd reason, still side-eyeing him. Then another pigeon landed, as if summoned. Two silent witnesses at his feet, side-eyeing him, their heads bobbing in unison. Soon, a flock arrived, surrounding him, pecking at his feet, and side-eyeing, like auditors of his guilt.
Forrester suddenly realized the absurdity of it all and laughed once, a thin, almost embarrassed laugh. And in that laugh, something shifted—brief, insubstantial, but real enough. It was a flicker of lightness. It was the high point of the entire day—a zenith, if not a solution.
© Michael Arturo, 2025
Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014.
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