Weeds

Anne pressed her forehead against the windowpane and looked into the night. Their front-seat murmurs were barely audible. So she closed her eyes on the black and thought of him. O, how wrong to think of him! But the glass was cold and the music was swirling around her ears and her heart longed. Her wrists were in his hands and he could do what he liked.

He came up behind her and placed his hand on her neck. He was desperate to have her. And she was trembling in expectation.

She opened her eyes in the garden, and he was not even looking at her. He was intent on his article and his cigarette and his tea. She shifted miserably on her lichened bench and tried to plunge into her diary. She couldn't stay in such close proximity to him, and a circular walk brought her to an isolated seat hidden from his table and the chicken.

Singing under her breath, she began to craft a daisy chain out of a patch of weeds. Before long, he came striding around the corner almost angrily.

"Didn't you hear me calling your name?"

She wished she had. She loved to hear him say her name.

"I hope you're not over here in a mood."

Of course she was melancholy. But wasn't that her own business?

"No, just making you something."

She placed the crown of daisies on his head and proclaimed him King of the Garden. He was charmed and really looked at her for the first time that day. What a curious little child she was. What was her mood about? The sun reflected off of her black hair, and she looked almost radiant in her innate sadness.

He was suddenly hot and tugged his sweatshirt off in a violent motion.

"Ohh!" Anne let out a small but pitiable cry as her crown of weeds was crumpled in the action.

"Oh no, I forgot I was wearing this! Well, it would look better in your hair anyway," he stammered, thrusting the ruined flowers back at her. He awkwardly turned and walked back to his table, leaving her standing alone with the crown in her hand.

That night he slept again on the train, and she held his head in her arms.