Of Crickets and Sunsets

by avrillorenzo

A set of stone tables lined

beside an old building.

18 years old.

At 4:30 in the afternoon,

if you happen to pass by,

you’ll see her.

Earphones plugged on each ear.

Sitting alone.

Notebook out, pen in hand, writing

and constantly looking

at her watch.

I passed by once.

I saw her. Then

I sat at a far corner,

somehow intrigued.

I watched as she scribbled

furiously on her notebook

as the sun sets to her

left. Shadows of people

passing didn’t seem to

faze her. Once in a while,

she would look up

and around.

The lush greens

were tainted with the orange rays of the sun.

I hoped to be bored soon,

but I found myself counting

the times she would look

at her watch or look

up and around.

Slowly, the sky turned orange.

Then pink.

Then mauve.

Then slightly velvet blue.

And as I sat there,

serenaded by the crickets

and caressed by mosquitoes

which died when they did so,

I watched her

slowly packing her things.

I stood up, the same time

she did, but I sat back down.

Because she looked over to her

left, breathed deeply

and bid the sun goodbye

when it was already gone.

She

left.

And as I sat there,

alone and smelling

the remnants of sunset,

I realized I’ve been thinking of

her as often as the

crickets sing.

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