flowers in the sink

after a week of adulting and not much sleep and summer weather daring to continue in autumn and loving epistolary novels to pieces, I wrote something this afternoon:


She's left flowers in the kitchen sink again. There are tulips and roses and snapdragons, like Mrs Tumbler grows. You don't think she stole them from Mrs Tumbler, do you? Heavens, I hope not. But, in my mind, I can see her at dawn plucking and piecing together enough bouquets to fill every vase in the house. She's a worry. An absolute worry. Which is why you must come home. Please come home.



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