(B) She continues sitting silently.

A mass of pink and white petals clouds her vision with a gust of southerly wind, and as the confettii swirls and falls she sees him coalesce once more through the chaos. But she doesn't speak.

As he passes, she notices that his face is flushed; the heavy scent of citrus permeates the air. With a rush a firetruck screams by, an insistent reminder of the troubles of Man. She watches him walk away and sighs, heavily. If only I didn't live with someone, she thinks with a tinge of regret.

And it's the regret she saves, tucked safely into her breast pocket, as the wind blows warm and dry through the leaves. The leaflets, really, so newly unfurled are they that they merely suggest the idea of a leaf, of a broad, vibrant plane set off against the white sky above. The wind blows warm and dry, and there, among it all, sits a hard and limited girl, her long hair swirling in eddies around her stony face. She sits on a park bench noticed once and forgotten, and at the end of her hour looks wearily about her, smooths her unruly hair safely behind her ears, and slowly rises.

The heat is settling in the park now, and the last of the breeze is stifled until the air is as still as a tomb. Finally picking up the her belongings, she treads the path herself, alone.