Maybe Monday’s were just too hectic 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 myself from asking who they were for; they weren’t for me, that was bad enough. Then one Tuesday passed without you and the next ones missed you too. I saw you on the street one last time; you didn’t recognise me. Like the cellophane I used to wrap your peonies in, you stared through me. Your eyes were shadowed, missing was the spark I loved. You seamed broken.