I often saw her reading.
I assume she likes reading as she has a new book nearly every week. She'll sit there, on her bench with a book nestled in her lap. I guess it's 'her' bench, nobody else really sits there anymore as it's often occupied. By her.
We aren't friends, I would barely call us acquainted. Regarding her from the distance is the most I've done. Cowardly and creepy, I know.
Her hair caught in the wind and hands tucked into her jumper sleeves, she sits there so beautifully. It should be impossible to look so breath-taking while reading - but there she was. Sitting, and reading that goddamn book with her plump pink lips puckered in a way that would make the entire male population swoon, those idiots payed more attention to fake boobs and false eyelashes than to the ground beneath their feet. Their loss.
YOU ARE READING
Allegra
Short StoryShe was art. Not an abstract painting or a heavily worded book. She was wonders hidden in a masterpiece. Wonders others weren't bothered to look for, to appreciate. A beautiful arpeggio mastered by your left hand, the harmony produced by two notes...
