She's a local. I've seen her around before. She comes in once or twice a month, usually with a group of friends. I rarely see her by herself, but tonight is different. Tonight, she's alone. From across the room, I watch her. She's sitting at a table in the corner, nursing her drink. She looks miserable. I can see that her eyes are red, like she's spent her evening crying. I want to go over and comfort her, but I can't work up the courage.
So she sits there, alone with her drink. And I watch her, and wish that I could be stronger, braver, better.
I write like
Bram Stoker
Bram Stoker
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
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