He hadn’t intended for it to be the defining event of his life.
He needed to buy her flowers.
That was necessary.
He only knew of one florist in town.
The bell hanging over the door made him shiver as it rang,
announcing his arrival.
Flowers were expensive.
Roses seemed inappropriate, but there was nothing else.
The woman behind the counter wrapped them carefully, precisely.
She smiled at him and he cringed.
The flowers were heavier than any he had ever carried.
The bus station was a convenience store with a Greyhound license.
Sitting on the bench out front,
he tried to convince himself that he did not like children
despite a degree in child psychology.
“The hills look like green elephants,” he said,
attempting an irony beyond his grasp.
She didn’t understand the words
or why he had spoken
or why he was there.
He had begun to doubt his responsibility, but he could not ask her.