And now, since yesterday, she's been acting strange, as if something is putting her off balance. It's in the little details, a trace of it in her eyes, in the way she stumbles on the words when she talks about her day. She wants to stay in tonight, no dressing up and no dancing, just the red wine and opium cigarettes on the balcony after sunset.
Henry sent me dried daffodils, one for each day since we last met, and a note saying he stopped watering them when I left. The perfect cliché with a twist and I hate to admit it works.