When she goes out, she wears sunglasses.
Dark sunglasses, black jacket, black jeans, black boots.
The shirt she throws on is purple.
Nothing special, but it reminds her of him. Maybe because it was his, once upon a time. She won it in a drinking game, the soft cotton t-shirt being the cause of the argument that ended with him passed out on the floor and an empty bottle of vodka in her hand.
She smiles at the memory.
The dark glasses hide her eyes, and she likes that. He told her once that her eyes were the crack in her mask. A crack only he could see, but a crack nonetheless.
A cool breeze sends the leaves into a frenzy of noise, almost like whispers.
The bench she sits on is the same one on which she first let him glimpse her past.
Because the whisper of the leaves is the tree passing secrets, she told him. A thought that would be nice, had it not been tainted with the lesson that every whisper is an enemy, a hidden sniper waiting to shoot you down.
She reminds herself that her life has been saved by that lesson many times and the shiver that runs down her spine is not from the cold.
Loud voices and laughter float down the paths of the park in the form of families with strollers and hand-holding couples.
The sky gets darker, rain clouds moving in to ruin a blue sky, and she stands in silence, shoves her hands deeper in the pockets of her jacket, and walks home alone.