They were in the Huntington Library walking around the Shakespeare Gardens and her mom chatter filled the air as she went on about the flowers, hanging heavy from the deep green shrubbery.
“Bring a jacket, it’s warm in the sun and cool in the shade,” her mother would always say of days like these. They were comfortable and the air was crisp. The sunshine was bliss after the previous downpours of the week.
The dirt damp from dawn’s dew molded beneath their feet to their steps.
Picking up a flower off the ground, she commented how soft the petals were. “No wonder people compare soft things to petals,” the other laughed, taking the fallen flowers and caressing it with her face.
Handing the flower back, the first girl examined the bottom of the flower, from its bud. She noticed the pattern of the petals, wobbly lines drawn by a perfectly drunk God.
At first quietly she began to pull the petals off. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me- until all the petals were gone. Her younger sister and the other girl stood by watching with anticipation. He loves me not. She pulls off the last slim excuse of a petal: he loves me.
Her sister asks “So who’s the lucky boy?”
She responds, “Well I don’t know yet, but at least I know he loves me.”