She enters our shop on a slow day. Purple braids, glowing brown skin, and an infectious smile. She’s drenched from the rain, clothes plastered to her skin, but she looks perfectly comfortable in the discomfort. She expresses a love for Macaroons and, with a wistful twist of her features, says she hasn’t had ours in ages.
We click, and we flirt; she’s a charmer. Yet, I feel rejection looming. She feels out of reach. Beautiful, interesting girls usually are.
But when I see her on the news the next day, suicide by drowning, I feel like I missed every obvious sign.