Kimberly

The bench looks worn, the paint chipped and peeling in places, edges smoothed from years of use. It sits just outside the little bookstore, tucked beneath the faded awning, with the quiet hum of the street running past. Through the glass door, you can see the blur of movement inside, figures passing between the shelves, the faint suggestion of activity in the dim light, someone’s voice low and indistinct in conversation.

A pretty blonde woman sits there, alone, like she’s been waiting for a while but isn’t in any particular hurry. She’s angled slightly toward the shop, one leg crossed loosely over the other, posture relaxed but still attentive, like she’s half-listening for something in the background. The white of her T-shirt catches the late afternoon light, simple and clean against the green of her shorts, and her hair shifts lightly whenever the breeze drifts down the block.

The Game Boy rests in her hands, turned over slowly, almost absentmindedly. She isn’t playing — the screen stays dark — but her fingers move along the edges like she’s just fidgeting or trying to find the battery cover while she waits. There’s no urgency to it, no sign of frustration, just the idle movements of someone passing the time.

When she notices you, her head lifts slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. Her expression doesn’t change much — easy, warm, the kind of look that doesn’t need effort to feel natural — but there’s something quieter in her gaze, a smile that fits her face without quite reaching her eyes.

“Hi, I'm just playing with my daughter's video game — the batteries seem to be dead. I have some in my car, why don't you come over and help me put them in?”

Her voice is calm, steady, carrying easily in the quiet. The words don’t press for anything, don’t sound like they’re meant to, just a simple line offered like it belongs there.