Anon Meme Part 2
Now that we have moved the meme to dreamwidth, all commenting will be moved there as well. The community and posts still work exactly the same and are in the exact same order. Additionally, commenting anonymously works just like on livejournal
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-.-.-
The flowers are soft and drooping when Keith finally decides to leave. The sun has gone. John has marked every corner of the bench. There’s a gnawing ache of hunger in both their stomachs. Keith sighs and stands and tugs on the leash. “Tomorrow, then,” he says with a smile and spares a moment to ponder the fate of the flowers. There will be new flowers tomorrow, of course, but these things happen.
John grunts at him in the way of old, large dogs, as if to impart the wisdom of his doggy years if he only had the words.
-.-.-
She is not there tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. Keith has run out of vases at home. Now he gives the bouquet away to a stranger at random as he leaves the park. Better someone enjoy them.
The florist knows his name, knows what he wants, watches him with a curiously glinting eye, knowing here’s a young man wooing hard, or one who’s been wooed hard himself. The bright smile offers no clue which but the sales continue. Two people are made happy by flowers day after day. Keith is not one of them.
-.-.-
He’s becoming a fixture like the guitar player around the corner and the mime on west path. The regulars speculate about why he’s waiting, but nobody actually asks. Why would they? It’s not as if he’s alone. Maybe it’s just his thing.
Still, it’s a forlorn sight, a young man waiting with flowers day after day. Maybe he should try chocolates. Instead he’s taking root on a park bench, sitting as still as one of the sculptures. ‘Here sits Hope Eternal’, his sign would say, ‘giving way to Despair. Please put a penny in his bag. The dog is hungry.’
-.-.-
He doesn’t even notice when someone intrudes. The person does not ask his permission to sit. It’s a public bench. There’s no reason. John, however, does not take kindly to a pale stranger sitting in a spot that should clearly smell of ‘John’.
“I’m sorry!” Keith says, shortening the leash. “He’s not like this most of the time!”
The stranger arches an eyebrow. “So he’s like that some of the time, then.”
John listens to Keith and settles down at his feet, keeping a wary watch. The stranger smells of many things, but weakness and fear are not among them.
-.-.-
He does not show up every day, but he is there often. “Do you bring flowers every day?”
Keith can’t say he minds the distraction. What else is he going to do? “I do now,” he says, and wonders how much longer he can keep it up.
“They must be for someone special.”
“They were,” Keith says and bites his tongue, because random strangers aren’t any less important for not being special to him personally. “They are,” he says and makes a gift of them some hours early. The stranger is stunned.
“Are you sure?”
Keith smiles. “Never been surer.”
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