Proluge: Satine's story.

  A woman of twenty-three sat behind her busy desk in a crowded workroom. The unending sound of sirens and cars from the busy streets of Manhattan, New York crept through the cracks of her office window. On her desk were scattered papers, a stapler, a morning copy of the "New York Times", an outdated laptop, a picture of her and her parents at Christmas last year, and a glass vase filled with fresh, carnations. Every so often, as she worked, she would look up at the vase. The spicy, sweet aroma of the flowers would reach her nose. Gently, she would close her brown eyes and quickly remember the boy. She would say to herself, "I love you, always." Just as fast as the memory would come, it would vanish. And reality would set back in. Quietly, she would survey the room. Paranoidly thinking the people surrounding her could read her thoughts. Then, she would nervously tuck a strand of her thick, brown locks behind her ear and get back to work. Her name was Satine Larson, and this is her story.  

  Every day was the same rouine for Satine. She would wake up at six twenty every morning, shut off her alarm and think to herself "I love you, always." She would get up, start her coffee maker and jump into the shower. After being in the shower for exactly fifteen minutes, she would shut off the water, grab her towel and go into her bedroom. She would pick out an outfit for the day, then lay it on her bed. Afterwards, she would go back into her closet and pick out matching shoes, and place them on the floor parallel to her clothes. After getting dressed she would go into the bathroom and plug in her hair dryer. It would take her exactly twenty-two minutes and forty-three seconds to dry her hair every morning. Satine would brush her eyelashes with a touch of mascara, powder on some blush, and brush her teeth. She would then make her way into the kitchen, fix herself some coffee and grab her briefcase. Right before she walked out the door, she would say to herself, "I love you, always." Once in the busy streets of Manhattan, Satine would walk past thousands of unfamilliar faces. She would walk to a man selling the morning paper, hand him the two dollars and thirty-five cents needed to pay for it, thank him, and leave. Satine would then keep walking to a nearby flower stand, buy herself a dozen pink carnations and walk three more minutes to her job. She worked as a journalist for a local magazine. It barely paid, but it was enough to keep her somewhat happy. Once inside she smiled and greeted those around, but hurredly made her way to her desk. Setting her coffee, paper, and briefcase down. After getting her things in place, Satine picked up the bouqet of carnations from yesterday, saying to herself "I love you, always." opened her window, and threw them out. Refilling the vase was her favorite part of the day, for it felt like she was refilling the love she had once experienced. She brushed her fingertips against the soft, pink petals of the flower as if she was brushing her fingers against his soft lips. A single, silent tear crept down Satine's face. She let it fall upon the flower petal and she said to herself "I love you, always."