He loves me, He loves me not....

 She sits on the swing. With a daisy in hand. She picks petal after petal. watching them fall to the ground. "He loves me. He loves me not..." She continues. She knows he's gone. Just a figment of her imagination now. Since the war... "He loves me. He loves me not..." Her fingers are sticky from the flower's residue. She picks a fresh one from the plate by her side, dropping the other to the ground. She watches it fall. "He loves me. He loves me not..." She stops, repeats. saying the same words over and over. Tearing off the petals, One. By. One.