She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. "I will struggle no longer with destiny.
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