And so she stood at the window.
Her feet cushioned by the nubby braided rug beneath her feet. The warm breeze of an August afternoon pulses in waves across her face.
The sound of gravel popping under the Studebaker's tires now muffled by the distance. The dust cloud settling.
Now all that was left was the faint scent of perfume -- the brand she had hoped would make him stay.
(Based on the Andrew Wyeth's painting, Wind from the Sea)
