FLOWERS

She thought it was a pity he seemed to have decided to agree on everything she had to say, being this quite unlikely shall honesty had been scenting the night. She thought of him as handsome and even dared to imagine herself embraced by that big chest, strong arms and firm hands, the idea of a warm body laying next to her was a pleasant amusement. His well-carried older age signs fitted well with the kind of details she fancied lately, like the ones she admires when in front of the mirror. Silver hair, a confident look framed by lines around the eyes. Though nice, all this was not enough. She didn’t care for being right as much as for being challenged and inspired, and in that department he was, unfortunately, not scoring any golden stars so she pictured herself under her colourful warm quilt, by herself, watching a film. She knew, right and there, she had no more business staying in this brown cafe. She stood up, and collected her stuff wrapping herself in the thousand layers she wore to praise the sharp white winter waiting outside. The cold shoulder she got, instead of the kinder farewell she hoped for, ruined the possibility to arrange a future get-together that might provide a chance to a better try, and it gave her the clue: she had done just right calling it a night. Outside now, walking down the road, she carried with both hands, and close to her chest, the flowers she rescued from being thrown away at her workplace earlier that day with the hope of giving them a second chance; warming up, one step at the time, to the prospects of arrival to her welcoming home and her uncomplicated life.

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