# 15 June 2009, 14:30
EXT. PARK – DAY
A MAN (45) is sitting straight and upright on a park bench.
He wears a simple business suit. A good quality white shirt which has been washed 104 times, an inexpensive haircut and black shoes which though not new, are well shined. On the ground near his feet is a worn but sturdy brief case. He is not old, but his skin is grey and he looks tired.
He looks around the near empty park and loosens his plain blue silk tie.
MAN (V.O.)
I don’t know why I haven’t come here before.
The sun is low and casts beams of flickering light through the leaves of a nearby tree.
The man rubs his chin with his right hand, as if trying to decide if he needs a shave.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
This is a good park.
The gently curving pathway in front of him describes a graceful arc.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
It is well tendered and there is no litter.
It’s true.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
The grass has been watered well and survived the summer crowds.
A few patches of brown soil show where many people have walked off the paths, but it has not been too badly damaged.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Those trees over there are old and yet they are not diseased and have been skillfully nurtured over the years.
A detail of a bough of a stooping tree with a dark, wooden man-made support driven into the ground. There is tall grass around the base of the support which is steadied by dark wires. The tree sways gently in the afternoon breeze.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
In a few weeks from now, that one will be bright orange.
Another tree is nearby – different.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
And that one will be brown. A good contrast.
From somewhere hidden, the faint sound of someone practising a musical instrument can be heard.
He sees a fat man in a jogging suit briefly through the trees on the opposite side of the open grassed area.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I suppose many people come here.
His hand trembles slightly as he loosens his tie a little more.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
People with different lives to mine. Different pasts. Different futures.
The instrument stops abruptly. The man looks around stiffly but can’t see who was playing.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Peace… It is good.
He sits straight, his body tense, unmoving.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I have not had enough peace in my life. Always busy, always something to do.
He shrugs – an uncomfortable movement.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I suppose that is my fault. Or perhaps just my decision. Not anyone’s fault.
He sits, breathing slowly. Carefully looking at everything he can see, deliberately making an effort to notice every detail.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
No one is to blame. Not even me.
A breeze rustles the leaves above him and a few dead ones fall slowly to the ground, spiralling and dancing in the eddies.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Leaves.
He watches them as they spin.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Leaves serve a useful life. They convert sunlight to energy and feed the tree.
Leaves dance.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Or is it that the tree takes energy from the ground and feeds the leaves? I can never remember.
A few dried and curled leaves fall together onto the pathway nearby.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Perhaps it is both.
The dead leaves pick up again and skid across the surface.
MAN (V.O.) (CONT’D)
But now they have done their job. The tree takes sustenance from their vigour and then, when it is time, sets them free.
One brown leaf blows under his bench. The man watches it with his eyes until it goes out of his sight, but he doesn’t move his head.
The leaf moves freely until it falls into a dark patch directly under him. The wind tries to pull it free, but it is stuck.
Then a bright red spot of blood falls on it. Then another. And another.
MAN (CONT’D)
(outloud)
I should have come here more often.
FADE TO BLACK.