She sat alone in the park under the shade of an old maple tree, its foliage becoming sparse as the short summer edged into a warm, long autumn. The breeze whispered through the branches, through the grass at her bare feet and the navy flats poised perfectly to the right of her. It mussed the loose strands of her otherwise smooth hair, pulled into a tight but messy bun at the nape of her neck. The short pieces of hair framing her face tickled her eyelids, her nose, her lips as she poured over the book held open on her lap.
It was a historical novel on the happenings of the battle of Dunkirk, a far cry from the romantic novel she finished the previous week that had left her trembling in tears on the bathroom floor. Why had she even read that book? Reading the synopsis, she knew that she would be heartbroken by the story’s end, yet she devoted the better part of a few days making her way through it, investing herself in the well-rounded characters of this fiction.
But she was odd like that: she loved sad stories and carefully chose books to read that would confirm her notions that true love only ended in tragedy. She just prayed, as she turned the past page of each novel, that the story leading to the terrifically morose end would be one of passion and adventure.