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There’s a bench in Robinson park that sits overlooking a tree. It’s bolted in complete solitude and worn down and sufficiently weathered.
She never explicitly plans it. Just so happens that she’s there. She’s there when it’s pitch black and the absolute only thing she can hear is the reliable rumblings of sirens in the distance. When it’s so hot that the weeds shrivel and wither. When it’s pouring so heavily the only thing she can do is close her eyes and feel the growing weight of her clothing.
She could never just call her. Show up on her doorstep. She’s too stubborn. Obstinate and unwilling to change her ways. Besides - sometimes suffrage feels deserving. In the end, it didn’t matter what she wanted. She made her choice and Pamela made hers in result.
What doesn’t change is the way her laugh haunts her. And she can’t walk a square mile in this desolate town without thinking of her. How every street corner and every bodega and every subway stop holds some kind of memory. How she could be doing the most mundane of tasks and a little voice in her head that resides by the essence of someone else says something bubbly that brings a smile.
She often wonders if she, herself is just a faded memory to Harley. Harley whose lights are blinding and eternally blithe. The Harley who showed up at her doorstep battered and bruised yet wielding a limp plant that she insisted Pamela attend to first. The Harley who was so overcome with guilt from a stray bullet hole… that she riddled the wall with more and fixed a makeshift “sunroom” for Pamela. Whom held the big wigs at bat-point demanding name rights for any further plant species (the specifics of this are a headache, but every so often she’ll receive a summation).
Pamela was hers. The inverse was not as unerring.
She’s been sitting there for an hour…or two. She never bothers to check the time. When she’s done she’ll leave. When her mind eventually reaches a standstill and there’s nothing left but to wade through emotions tirelessly. Ones that she’d rather leave here. She does, eventually.
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Laden with regret and unease marked and exacerbated by the particular day she makes her way to her spot. Unceremoniously marked by her frequent visits and doubled with the fact that a square hidden away in a park does not get much use she trudges almost completely lacking of her own free will.
This time though she stops in her tracks. On her way through the patchy grass she sees her. Well, the back of her head. Blonde, hair parted in two low hanging pigtails. The back of a leather jacket with bright patches on the elbows, dark jeans and heavy boots. Pamela must’ve let out a gasp void of her own volition because she turns her head around and stares right back at her.
Pamela notices her eyes light up and the way the apples of her cheeks rise to make room for her megawatt smile. She hops up and vaults the bench. Wrapping Pamela up in a hug before the redhead can even get a word of greeting in.
“I knew I’d find ya here”
Pamela aghast, finally fills the short pause, arms trapped by her sides, unmoving and frozen, “It’s where I come. To remember your face.”
“Like you could ever forget it.. thanks for waiting for me.”
“i-“ she’s choked up on her own words. Betrayed by her feelings at the most crucial of times. She’s meant to confront the blonde. Make her answer why she left. How could she. Why would she? What did it mean to her. But the only thing she can will is her arms to reach up and squeeze tight, her body to meld to the shape of her partner and her face to find purchase in the solace of Harley’s neck.
All of that doesn’t really matter does it? Because this time maybe she’s deserving.