It was early autumn but she was wrapped in a thick winter coat and wore gloves. Dusk was gathering, lamps orange with new light. The path, snaking an S-bend through grass, was littered with dying leaves. She looked at him like he was an eight-year-old child who’d disobeyed his mother and run across a red light. There was nothing to say. Nothing she needed to say; he knew he was wrong and that she ached because of it. She swept the wet hair out of her eyes and dragged deeply on her cigarette. One more time, she thought, and it’s over.
Excellent comment on a love affair that I fear will soon end. Great imagery, too!
Once more and perhaps then once more and . . .
imagery of emotion. A picture well painted with words.