Two Flat Flowers

A man sat down at a table outside. He needed a place to eat his lunch. The table before him was cluttered.

Someone left their newspaper here, he said Left it sitting on this table where I think I want to sit. So I'll move it to that chair over there. That's easy enough, just set it there for somebody else.

Of course, we know he didn't really speak these words. He was after all alone, and in any event people don't really talk like that. But those are the thoughts he thought.

And when he did move it, there was something left behind underneath: two flowers pressed flat, a purple and pink blooming Wandering Jew and a yellow Lantana both squashed by the weight of the words.

He moved the paper, but he left the flowers with their color on his table. He didn't particularly care for the words, but the colors vaguely appealed to him, something to liven up a black metal table sitting on a gray concrete sidewalk.

And when he stood to go back to the place that he had come from, he stood up more refreshed than when he sat down. Maybe it was the cheeseburger. Maybe it was the big glass full of Dr. Pepper. Or maybe, and this is the theory I like to hold, maybe those flowers just did him some good.

Or maybe not.

Whatever.

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