“What The F*ck is Wrong With Me?” Part 2.
Exactly 100 words.
Disclaimer: The picture does not belong to me.
He noticed she always came in every Tuesday. She would buy the same two things—gum, and a coffee. She’d always have some worn paperback in her bag. She would then sit in the same high table, in the most secluded corner of the café and set her items in an orderly fashion. (The paperback always positioned in front, its pages barely touching the almost never touched cup of coffee).
She would sit at this table every Tuesday for as long as he had worked at the register in the café.
Until the day she killed herself on its steps.