A park bench. A woman sits. Under a tree. An oak tree, tall and full, shoulder to shoulder with kindred foliage, bathing the bench in an acre of shade.

She flattens her skirt onto her lap and waits. A squirrel nibbles an acorn on a branch. Pieces fall. The woman brushes one off her shoulder. She doesn't look up. Instead she stiffens her back and refolds a newspaper section she carries. Personals. The squirrel leaves her.

"I shall not allow myself to think," she will later write in her diary, "that any method is particularly beneath my trying, given that I have not yet tried all methods, and remembering that I am inclined, and have been since I was small, to dismiss things which are not what a well-regarded person would call 'regular'."

People are passing. A man in a gray suit. A woman jogging. A boy on a bike. A woman with a stroller. She has counted seven. She has not smiled at a single one.

A man passes who is a little older than she—perhaps forty-nine. Not handsome. His fingers are unadorned. He eyes her and slows. He almost stops. She will not look at him. He sighs and moves on.

A breeze blows graying hair across the face of the woman on the bench. She brushes it aside. Her movement is not practiced. It is not stylish. It is functional. She brushes her hair aside and she's done.

The face of the woman on the bench is undecorated. Creases show. Lips do not. Eyes blend in. She carries a mirror but she rarely uses it. Today she did. Just before she sat on the bench.

There are two apples in her purse. She knows she can converse over an apple. She's not hungry.

"I cannot decide if my expectations," she will also write, "were too high or too low, considering I wasn't especially surprised that I waited fruitlessly on the hopes of three lines for five dollars. Still, I do know my manners, and it would have been untoward of me to do anything the least bit flirtatious."

She does not have a watch, but knows it's time to leave. She stands and sidesteps another woman with a stroller, letting her eyes follow that one. Around a curve. She walks toward the street, passes a trash can, tosses the newspaper, thinks about the not handsome man with the unadorned fingers. She wonders where he is now. And if he likes apples.

She goes back to the bench. It is occupied. A young couple. Holding hands. She stands nearby. She thinks she may wait a while longer.