Fuck the Flowers

"Sometimes I feel like bringing you flowers," he says.

She ponders this for a moment. The words seem so alien, she's not sure if she heard him right.

Flowers. Yeah. Right. Doesn't he understand how hard she tries to harden her heart against this sort of stuff? How hard she tries to keep that door shut, because opening it would bring out more than she could cope with. How often she has to tell herself to pull back because, however much she feels as though she belongs to him; she knows that he doesn't belong to her. How so aware she is that there is one piece of the jigsaw missing.

She doesn't want flowers from him. What she craves are kisses. And not the hide behind a corner or duck behind a pillar type of kisses, but the earth stopping stand in the middle of the street kisses where they stand still and the world spirals around them. She wants to be pushed up against the barrier on Tower Bridge, his tongue thrust hungrily down her throat, whilst the tourists throng by. She wants him to grab her in the middle of Oxford Street and snog her greedily, making all the shoppers tut angrily as they have to side step them. She wants him to bring her to her knees with his lips in front of the world.

Fuck the flowers. She wants kisses.