What The Tree Saw

She sat on the bench, he lay beside me. The wind would blow – roughly persuading my leaves to float towards the ground, and lay themselves upon the man who lay beside me. Some weren't persuaded. Some would fall, but land between the man who lay beside me and the lady on the park bench.
Some even dared to land beside the lady.
The lady on the bench let a smile through her cool, calm composure, elegant in the moonlight. Her eyes - focused beyond the gentle sprinkle of rain relived her story. She enjoyed every second: The control, the power, the thrill.
The night was quiet, spare the soft roar of cars. The roar reminded her of the sea. Crescendo, Forte, Diminuendo, Repeat. There were no crickets to be heard. No cicadas made an audible sound. Nor did the Owls who, or the storm birds screech. There was Rain, Wind, Leaves, Cars. And last of all, the thoughts of the lady who sat on the bench – which had now turned to the family of the man who lay beside me.
Did they exist? Who were they? Where were they? Mother? Father? Sister? Brother? Older? Younger? Nephew? Niece? Wife? Daughter? Son? What did they look like? Did they know where he was, who he was, how he watched, how he waited, what he did?
Did they even care?
She cared.
The lady on the bench leaned down, plucked a weed from the earth, and twirled. Her eyes settled on the man who lay beside me. She threw the weed; it missed the mark, fell amongst the leaves.
The lady stood, the lady turned, the lady delicately placed her gloves upon the bench before the lady walked away, boots heavy on the cement.
Her boots had mud on them, leaving a trail to her scarlet stained gloves, which had coloured the weed, which rested beside the knife, which lay beside the man who lay beside me.
I enjoyed my last meal - different than the ones before.
I tasted vengeance.