Flowers in her hair

He lost count of the days when she was last here.

When she last laid her head next to his pillow. Seeking that common affection he believed he had exclusive rights over. A high demand she supplied gladly. The head massage he would pretend to reluctantly give her, but later wished the fragrance transformed and attached to his fingers, would never cease to exist.

If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then this growth of fondness is pissing him off.

The thought was forcibly dismissed. Can’t afford to be upset to fall asleep, thought. He closed his book, turned off the lights and subconsciously placed himself near his side of the bed.

He took that long inhale exhale act like any other person concluding a long day. As he did, he caught a scent coming from the greener (yet barren) side of the bed.

Flowers. It smelled like flowers. Amazing, he thought. If man could live without exhaling, then he would have went on doing otherwise all night.

He lost count of the days when she was last here.

.

At the Royal Albert Hall in London.