There were today cut flowers in a bin. Placed stem first into a bin outside the local chippy.Pink daisy, yellow carthamus and purple iris wrapped in plastic wrap head to the sun. Price tag removed.
One: The buyer – only hours ago browsing sainsburys for the perfect bunch. Roses are too obvious, potted too messy, one that looks amazing but £15! on something that’s going to die. No. The resolve of this mission was dying, wondering around the flower islet there it was: A pink daisy that was as pretty and perfect as she was.
Knock, knock, knock. Adjust tie, wine label forward. Smile. Click, open.
“Miriam, you’re not even going to talk to me!”
On the outside a sigh of hopefulness – slightly blustered – trying to remember the lines practised in the car.
On the inside a sigh of hopelessness – slightly pitying – trying to remember if she was ever really happy.
After an indeterminate number of seconds, minutes, hours, he walked, stumbled, ran, to the corner crouched, two, three, four blinks no tears. Sitting in the car tears unabashedly mixed with vinegar soaked chips an open bottle between his legs cigarette ash everywhere.
Two: 20-something girl – who has never know love or heartbreak picks flowers from said bin with surprised delight at her colourful luck, tucks them under her arm while eating her vinegar soaked chips. They now sit on her kitchen table.