Bouquet

"I got your bouquet," she cooed, and he smiled. "Did you?" he asked quietly. "SO PRETTY," she continued. "You didn't have to do that." He nodded. "I wanted to; it seemed ... important. I have to run; we'll talk later, okay?" She smiled a gushy grin as he left, waving like a B-movie starlet. On the train, he pulled "The Language of Flowers (1881)" out of his pocket and read the note he'd tucked inside. "Flowers for selfishness, vanity, disregard for others, aggression, love of poor quality," he'd jotted down. "Flowers that urge you to reflect on yourself and pursue connection with greater integrity." He smiled at the thought that she might actually press one of the blooms into a book as a keepsake and wondered which one it would be.