Maybe Monday was just too crazed for something so delicate as buying flowers. You always came on a Tuesday, always bought the same bunch. Bright yellow wasn’t your favourite, but if I couldn’t get the soft yellow ones, you took them anyway. I kept from asking who the lucky recipient of these frequent bouquets was. That they weren’t for me was sad enough. Then one Tuesday passed without you and the next ones missed you, too. It was a too sunny Sunday when I saw you for one last time. You didn’t see me, did not notice my hand lifted in a shy wave. Like the cellophane I used to wrap your peonies in, you stared right through me. Your face, still so dear, looked the same. It was your shadowed eyes I did not recognise. Missing was the spark I loved too much. You seamed broken. For once, I was not alone. Now there were two of us.
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Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
