Flowers

She's about 30, a vibrant, blonde professional with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wide sunglasses perched smartly on top of her head, unneeded due to the overcast sky.

In her hands she's holding a flower pot, which is wrapped with a patterned paper high enough to obscure all but the tallest stems peeking out of the open top. The leaves are a dusky green, and the flowers are tiny whiplets of red, no bigger than the leaves themselves. My lack of botanical training means I don't know what type of flower this is. Definitely not roses, carnations, tulips, or those obvious types. No, this likely an obscure African or Asian breed, and therefore likely cost a pretty penny.

Something about the way she's holding it makes me suspect she has mixed feelings about this bouquet. Her face seems slightly contorted; one can see that she normally smiles a lot, but there is no smile now. Perhaps it's a gift from a recent ex-boyfriend, trying to mend the relationship, and while she doesn't want to go there again, she doesn't want to toss the flowers out willy-nilly. Perhaps a dear family member has passed away, and these flowers were given to her in sympathy by her concerned coworkers. Or maybe, these were a going away gift from a job she hated, and today was her last day; the flowers were given out of mere social polity instead of genuine affection, and thus represent a connection to people and an office she has little love for herself.

There's my stop.