Thinking with T.
Hydrangeas don’t dry up too well, thought he.
In a self-made envelope on the table, the flowers were spilling out, unable and unwilling to assume a two-dimensional form.
It was June when his lover left, again. Hence the hydrangeas, as a memento of sorts.
Remember the good days, the days spent together, the physical contact, the little things.
This is what the flowers stood for.
Since June, the days seemed to be dragging on.
He thought, in the background of his mind, trying really hard to push the thoughts back at the same time, ‘A few months a year… Why do I do this to myself…?’
The flowers might last till winter if he were careful.
Yet, more and more often, late at night, when his texts had gone unanswered for another day, he found himself crushing the dead blossoms, lost in thought.
It was supposed to be easy, but the other one was turning into something elusive, much like the fragrance of these flowers.
