It was over, they’d agreed that; had spent a long night unpicking and retying threads, getting everything in order. She’d woken the next morning, her head heavy with the wine they’d been saving for a special occasion, her heart bruised. But at least it was clear, she told her friends – herself – at least it was a clean, sharp break; nothing messy.
And now these: a cellophane wrapped cacophony of British Blooms. Brash trumpeting Hollyhocks, blousy Petunias, snooty Irises, and great unwieldy branches of privet, sitting on her doorstep, waiting to ruin her day.
Inspired by Damyanti’s answer to the question What do flowers mean to you? on July 16, 2010 at 11:48 am