He had been waiting for an hour. She couldn’t have forgotten. Not again, not this time. As the wind cracks its invisible whip he shivers and tries to snuggle deeper into his thin sweatshirt. She would come soon.

His eyes flick towards any detected motion and scan the huddled hordes of students scuttling off to class. He’s looking for that familiar face, listening for that aquatinted greeting. At any moment, he’s sure he’ll hear her high heeled boots clicking earnestly towards him. Her voice will lift melodiously through the air and all will be forgotten. Yet as the clock signals the beginning of another hour and the start of a new class period, he has yet to see her.

Bouncing back and forth on his legs, he tries to coax the warmth back into them.

It’s little use. Such a sentiment had left long ago.

The once vibrant red roses he held are now wilting with the weight of broken promises. His own head, too heavy with grief, drops into a dejected curve. She should have come. She said she would be there. With angry carelessness, he casts the bouquet aside and pulls out a large, puffy coat of his backpack. Zipping up his marshmallow like jacket, he tries to medicate the irremeably chill that has permeated his life.