Rosalyn
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In the slanting afternoon sunlight, fountain water strikes the stone basin as Rosalyn turns a page at the end of a bench in the shade of a tree.
When you's footsteps reach the path, she lowers her eyes to her book and pulls at the strap of the bag beside her.
It's this time again. I wasn't looking out for you on purpose.
Rosalyn fiddles with the ends of her hair, then moves the bag onto her lap.
Fine droplets glint on the newly cleared half of the bench.
Though her fingers keep rubbing the same corner of the page, the hem of her skirt stays on her own side.
This has always been my spot. But are you just going to walk past again today?
Her words are brusque, but her arms tighten around the bag.
Instead of reading her book, Rosalyn waits for you's answer.
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