one day, the girl decided to buy some flowers in columbia rd market. as she got to the road she could see the crowd getting scarier and scarier. there were tourists with cameras and smiles. there were mothers with coffees and prams. there were goths hanging out in the pub. there were babies. and artists. and oysters. and flowers. and palm trees. and forests and more.
she hesitated at the corner.
a couple of children stood on a chair repeating hysterically two for a pound. musicians played hyperactive music in the yard. a woman complained of being stepped on while sitting right in the middle of the only path. helen mirren walked by clutching some freesias. a van beeped reversing warnings, driver flirting with bejewelled chicks. caffeine rose up from a hundred cappuccinos. market sellers competed to sell above the din. bouquets seemed like a far away objective.
to rest her eyes, the girl looked up. a neat row of tightly shut windows fringed the market street without fanfare. equally criss-crossed windowpanes, equally spaced. on one of the frames, a man stood half naked, hair wet from the shower, steaming drink in one hand, elbow on the windowsill, calmly observing the madness down below.
the girl stared, the man winked.
eyes locked, the man navigated the girl around the market. lead her to the stall with the black dahlias with his smile. raised his mug to approve her purchase. and finally released her with a wave back to the crowd. out of the street. flowers safe. and one more magical character to add to her personal mythology.
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