Waiting
Cosette sat stiffly on the bench, her back aching from sitting so long on the hard stone. He would come, he always came. Every night, at eight o' clock, he came to her garden. Always. She heard the song of bells in the distance. Slowly, she counted ten mournful clangs. He would come. He always came.
Cosette would wait another twenty minutes. In twenty minutes he'd be beside her. He would bumble in precariously, a bouquet of apology roses flapping as he ran. Kept late at school, I suppose, Cosette thought. She wanted to believe this. She lied to herself; told her he was loaded down with work. Schoolwork, on a Sunday! Cosette's hair flapped in the breeze, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
Twenty minutes turned to thirty, and still she waited. Marius had to come. He always came. Cosette was awash with exhaustion, anger, and confusion. She curled up in a ball on the bench and began to weep the hard, cutting tears of rejection.
"I love you," she whispered to the stars. "I love you very much." She started to count the bells again but fell asleep before she got to eleven.
Cosette awoke the next morning, wondering where she was. Upon remembering, she wanted to cuss, scream, cry, curse his name. She wanted to wake up the whole city of Paris; she wanted to welcome them all to her private Hell. Cosette lifted her head to see the sky and broke into the ringing laughter of relief. Beside her head lay a single, blood red rose.