I met you at a bus stop on a warm August night. You were a little drunk, probably off cheap whiskey, and a tad buzzed off of some hand rolled cigarettes. You later told me you were feeling brave with liquid courage. You never would have approached me otherwise.
“You look like a flower,” you said to me with a loose, sheepish smile.
I turned my head and stared at you. “A flower?” I said.
“Yes, beautiful like a flower.”
The bus pulled up and I looked at you for a moment before walking on. I turned around to answer you, but you weren’t there. I looked out the window and saw you, realizing that you hadn’t been waiting for the bus - you had been waiting for me.
The next night I got off work late, and walked to the bus stop. And there, on the bench, was a single sunflower. A note was attached to it, and I picked it up to read.
‘I was wrong’, the note said, 'you don’t look like a flower, because your beauty doesn’t die. It’s breathing, living, expanding. Your beauty is forever.’
I purposely missed four buses that night until you finally showed up. And when you did, I asked you out to dinner.