"He loves me.......He loves me...not. He loves me"
Each
petal falls like a crisp autumn leaf drifting to the ground. Gently,
ever so gently, a petal is plucked and ritualisticly discarded for the
next pluck. The suspense rising in ebbs and flows.
"He loves me.....not?"
Anyone
can see that the flower lacks the right number of petals to turn out a
favorable outcome. In this recognition, she speeds through the act as to
not drag out the turmoil this causes her twisted little heart. Which in
turn twists her lips.
"He loves me. Helovesmenot. He loves me. Helovesmenot!. He loves me....Helovesmenot....."
The
flower is slammed to the ground. The cumpulsive twitch of her eye
disturbs her vision and she violently chokes another daisy from the
vase. A quick glimpse out the window and she sees him across the way
still sitting on his recliner playing his favorite first person shooter.
He's still with her. The twisted sick lips twerk up in to something of a
half hearted smile. With the flower nearly snapping in her grasp she
begins again.
"He
loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me.
He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves me, not. He loves me. He loves
me....not?!"
Rage
pours into her blood and she feels the boiling infection taking over.
Glancing at the vase she sees there are still around a dozen flowers at
her disposal. Knowing not one of the naked green stems matters a wink. It only feel good to say 'he loves me'. Still, she needs it to be 'he loves me' every time. She, again, discards
the stem to the floor...
...Topping off the other flowers, naked of petals, littering her whole apartment.
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