perspectives:one

She watched the boy, sitting hunched over at the bench, elbows on his knees. Every now and then he would unclasp his hands to wipe his eyes, and sniffle. Past the green jungle gym and the bright yellow slide she watched him crying.

The second thing the girl noticed after seeing he was crying was that he was around her age. A sixteen/seventeen-year old boy crying on a bench at a playground was not something you saw everyday, and she wondered why; wondered about both why it was happening, and why it wasn't something you saw everyday.

After she noticed the first and second things, and had wondered a bit, she thought about how she could help him. It seemed to be an innate part of her species to help their own when they were weeping. There was also the added element of curiosity, a seed which now sown was waiting to overgrow her mind.

"It's probably a break-up," said her subconscious, a decently reliable source. She pondered what had been said, and, before dismissing it completely, ordered it to take a seat for possible further examination.

She wanted to help him. The seed had been plucked from the fertile soil of her brain and had been thrown out; the truck delivering the General Compassion had dropped off its delivery, and she had drank from the cool, refreshing bottle.

If only she could get up and walk, feet sinking into the sand, ducking her head under the colourfully painted metal bars, across the playground, and talk to him. That's all it would take- a simple walk, twenty, thirty steps.

She wished she had no feet. That would give her an excuse.