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The Weird Chick

She Watches from the Bench

March 3rd,2010


A vision of beauty wrapped in cellophane, she sits by the river, alone. The slight breeze blows her hair gently as he watches. He sits by the road on an old, dirty bus bench, waiting. She stands as a man approaches her; he watches from the bench. She smiles as the man talks to her; he watches from the bench. The sun hangs low in the sky, surrounded by the pink and orange glow of sunset, as the last bus for the night rolls to a stop by the bench. The door opens to an uninterested man sitting on the bus stop bench.

“You getting on, then?” the driver asks. The man sits and stares, paying no attention to the driver or the bus. “You know this is the last bus,” he adds. The man sits and stares. Annoyance on his face, the driver closes the door and the bus quickly disappears down the road.

She sits again, with her back to the road and her face to the river, and the other man sits with her; he watches from the bench. He sees her reach for the other man’s hand, and he sees her lean on the other man’s shoulder. He sees them stand, and he sees them walk away, her hand in the other man’s.

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