She wants one of her own. The bench is warm where the boy sat. I take out my knife and whittle a funny face in the wood, more sad and archaic than his. At least it smells like fields and when he gets out, the sun must shine a lot more brilliant. My work is to punish and entertain.
All men are alone, together.
I will think of the boy running the last few yards, picking several flowers off the bush just to spite me.