Blond

A woman went to flower market. She was seeking some beauty, something with color and light, something with ultimate meaning. Her day was full of excel files, budgets, and numbers. Numbers that said no, no, no. She was 38, blond. Her hair was long and full of life as if she was 15. It was pulled back in a loose pony tail. She had a long face and strong bones, she was stunning, actually. The market was on the corner of two streets that formed a triangle. As she stood in front of the remarkable flowers, she was grateful that there were so many for her to look at and enjoy. It wasn’t just carnations or roses, this florist had too much art in him, and he picked and imported his flowers like they were chocolate, knowing that the tiniest detail made a difference. It was like a painting before her, something to stare at for awhile, the skinny petals, the fat ones, the ones that looked like stars and the ones that looked like the sun. She must have stayed there for an hour. Then the light on the flowers changed as the sun sunk into the ground and from behind her the night shown over her shoulders. She began to cry as the sensation of the flowers and the setting light overwhelmed her senses.