No I mean, what if my restlessness became so great that I could never settle into the peace of reading a book again? When a book would be opened, only for its text to blur into meaninglessness?...
I bought flowers today . Tulips… red.
I set them on the table in my kitchen. My flat has a funny layout because my neighbor has to pass by my kitchen window and then my bedroom window to get to the hallway.
He’s older, german, polite, friendly. He never complains of noise, or of any of the random people he must have noticed coming in and out of my flat or sitting in my kitchen.
I like to think he respects my privacy, or better yet, just isn’t interested. But then, what if tomorrow, when he passes my kitchen, seeing those tulips, will he wonder, who bought them? (I would) Or will he know, from having lived next to me these three years, that I am the kind of girl who buys herself flowers? Maybe he might have noticed in the first year, that I had different flowers every week. And even if some of them had been bought by someone else (none of them had), no lover would buy you flowers every week. Or would they?
I worked for a man once who bought his wife red roses every Monday. He set a weekly reminder to buy them in his blackberry. Every week with a card, with the same message.
I can't remember what it said. But it definitely ended with I love you... and..? I wondered if she appreciated it, or if it just became a routine like anything can become.
On Mondays he sends me roses, red, cut slanted at the stems…thornless.
And what if someone did buy me flowers every week? But what if it happened when that restlessness settled in. What if I met someone who bought me flowers every week precisely at the time I forgot how to read, and then I would never know, what he or she wrote, on the card attached.
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