She picks absently at the bobbles on her sweater. It’s dusk. She’s sitting at the balcony on her favourite chair. She hasn’t read a single line from the book lying on her lap. She hasn’t touched her coffee.
She is mulling over the events of the past few days. She’s mulling over how everything has gone horribly wrong.
She remembers the ice cream date that never happened. Would things have taken a different turn, had she spent that evening with him?
She keeps wondering. She keeps picking absently at the little bobbles on her sweater.