(This is a bad one. I couldn't concentrate on or properly finish my writing for people were talking really loud in the Café. But I will put it here for the sake of the no embellishment policy.)
She has been wandering about the cemetery for a long long time. She doesn’t even recall when she first got there. She just came, and liked it, and decided to stay. Her favorite grave is the one from Chopin, there are always fresh flowers laid upon the gravestone. Sometimes she just curls beside it, enjoying the sunshine. But when people walk by she always hides herself immediately with the speed of a flash—it’s almost like she just vanishes. The most beloved grave in the cemetery is the one of Oscar Wilde—which is her least favorite one. People just come and take pictures, kiss the gravestone with thick lipstick or leave a note to express their love, but who’s going to read that? It’s just cheesy. She likes the one from Marcel Proust far better, it’s not far away from the Oscar Wilde one but is totally the opposite: plain black, simple, not flashy at all. Usually people don’t notice her. But every now and then, some more observant ones would catch her blazing eyes. It happens more when it’s getting dark, when the cemetery is getting closed and people are getting asked to leave by the cemetery guards.
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