Flower Language by Hyle Bathurst

He doesn’t seem to understand that I am a cursed woman. 

I’ve walked past his floral stand one hundred times before this day. Each time I pause at the dry herbs hanging on the lines above the wooden table, quietly tracing the brittle leaves and enjoying the heavy scents of perfumed flora. He’s always here too. Always alone at the stand, talking with potential customers and smiling at the elderly ladies buying fresh sunflowers to brighten the dullest of days. 

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