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Weekly Contest #313
The smell of Wisteria drifted lazily on the spring air, sweet and faintly bruised, as if the petals themselves were holding their breath. The woman sat on the far end of the bench, ankles crossed neatly, a paperback in her lap but unopened. She didn’t look up when the man sat down. He left a respectful space between them. "Hope I'm not taking your spot," he said after a pause. She smiled, barely. “Public bench. No one owns it.” He nodded, hands folded in his lap. He looked like a man unused to idleness—still in pressed slacks, dress shirt ro...
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