If you asked her what she was doing, she probably would have told you nothing. It was nothing that she in the park at midnight, just like it was nothing that she was alone. The things fisted in her hands were probably nothing too.
Her favorite pen, metal-barreled and sleek.
A scrap of tissue paper.
The thumbstone in her pocket.
The last item wasn’t necessary, but she knew from literature that three was a powerful number. So three it was.
Sniffling in the cold air, she shucked off her gloves and clicked her pen. She wrotekind. passionate. loyal. playful. smart.on the tissue paper. Three wasn’t enough, and four was death, so five it was. The last one seemed off somehow, veering slightly into shallow territory, but lack of intelligence was a dealbreaker. Immaturity was one thing, stupidity completely out of the question. She knew better now.
After all, she didn’t go to the park after midnight just to half-ass her wishing. Which was what she was doing. Wishing.
Wishing for luck. Wishing to meet someone who wouldn’t use her, reject her, forget her. Wishing for love.
She clasped the paper to her chest, held it pressed to the thumbstone that had rubbed most of her worries away. Then she ripped it, tore the tissue paper into pieces the size of her pinky nail, and piled them on her hand. A tiny mound of paper snow.
Deep breath and blow, the woman had said to do, so she did, deep breath and blow. She blew and watched the paper pieces scatter in the winter wind and disappear into the night.
Please, she said to the universe. Please, please, please.