Chance

A Writer in his room, pending his poetry.

“A touch, A look

Tender and Fleeting

We are scared little creatures

Aching for Eternal Belong

Yet this Yearning is painful

And We Crave it more

Until It Drives Us Mad

Forevermore”

“Ah… It’s no good” Says the writer, “It has been a few days since she left me, why can’t I pen any thing down?”

The Writer looks outside his window and upon the couples in jealousy and the husbands buying flowers with hatred but upon the young Florist with fondness in his eyes.

The Writer gets dressed and goes out to see the Florist. Upon seeing the Writer, the Florist’s smile twist into an ugly frown, her eyes sharpens into spotlights of hate.

“What do you want?” The Florist ask with contempt.

“I just want to talk to you, I’ve been thinking of you.” The Writer says, reaching out a hand towards The Florist, about to touch her.

“You have nothing to tell you, go back to your books and writings since you consider those to be far more important than me.” Says The Florist while recoiling in disgust, “Now leave me be, I have nothing to say to you.”

The Writer walks away in dejection, he walks for metres no ones know how far. Until The Writer stumbled upon a Young Girl.

“Oh Young Child! Oh Young Child! How do you be? Is it the hops in your pretty round-toed Mary Jane flats? Or the dolls in your hands that brings you happiness?” Says the Writer with his hands in front of his face.

The Young Girl looks at The Writer with perplexed eyes and head tilted slightly to the side. The Young Girl’s face shows a look of innocence with a tinge of curiosity.

“You talk funny, Mister! What are you?” Questions the Young Girl.

“I apologise, Young Child, I am a Romanticist writer at heart.” The Writer says.

The Young Girl and The Writer sat down on a swing together and the Young Child looks at The Writer.

“Mister Writer, why are you so sad?” Says the Young Girl

“Oh Young Child, My heart has been broken, She left me with a broken heart but yet she is happy without me. How is this possible?” Says The Writer

“Perhaps your love for writing pushed her away, she was more free away from you. I think she wanted to be your one and only.” Says the Young Girl.

“Something just came to me, Young Child, you were right about it. I shall go now to talk to her, thank you Young Girl.” The Writer says

The Writer walked back to The Florist’s store, when The Writer reached the store, The Florist was closing up the store. The Writer entered the store and locked eyes with The Florist.

“What do you want?” Says The Florist with an antagonizing tone.

“What flowers do you have?” The Writer questions.

“We have everything here.” Says The Florist in a patronizing voice.

“I’d like some pink Carnations.” The Writer says pleasingly.

“Sorry, we are out of it.” Says The Florist in an irritation in her voice.

“Oh… Then I shall have some blue Hyacinths” The Writer says apologetically.

“Ok, I’ll wrap it up for you.” The Florist says annoyingly.

After paying for the flowers, The Writer stands in front of the register and looks down upon the flowers nervously and looks back at The Florist whose eyes are begging him to leave the store.

“These flowers are for you, I know I did some things I shouldn’t have done. Said some things I shouldn’t have said. So this is my apology to you, I know it can’t make up for the hours and days I’ve cost you but I hope you will accept it” Says The Writer before dashing out of the store, leaving the flowers on the counter.

The Writer runs home to sleep. The following day as The Writer sleeps, a postcard is slit under his door. The postcard reads,

“Your actions rebuild what once was torn,
A bridge of trust, a brighter morn.

No space for pain, no bitter rain
We rise, we heal, we start again

The past remains but won’t define
In grace, we let our hearts align”

The Writer looks out his window and looks upon The Florist’s store with anxious eyes, he looks over to his door to see a postcard, he picks it up and reads it then looks over to the store.

“She’s stolen my heart with her beautiful poetry once more”