The flowers are real, said the woman handing a deftly woven string of jasmine flowers, light as cotton, their mesmerising fragrance on sultry dark moon nights atop their terrace, like beaming stars emerging to brighten up the vastness of the sky. Here is some plant food, said the florist as he gave her the change, frantically trying to find homes for the remaining bouquets, as dusk set in. She bent her head out of habit, knowing what was missing, but at least, the flowers are real.
No comments:
Post a Comment