A Bouquet of Daisies in November
Emily tightened her dressing gown and wandered over to the window. The trees were nearly bare, their last few leaves clinging on. A thin layer of frost dusted the dull grass and the roof of the neighbour’s house. There’d been drizzle last night, and by morning, the world had turned crisp and cold. A gloomy November—the prelude to a long, endless winter.
She sighed. The melancholy outside mirrored the ache in her chest. Another lonely weekend stretched ahead, just her and these four walls.
***
It had been November then, too. During her lunch break, Emily had dashed across the road to the café near the office—the one everyone at work used for takeaway. They took turns picking up food, and today was hers. A light rain fell, but she hadn’t brought an umbrella. Too awkward to carry bags with one hand.
The road was empty, not a car in sight. Confident, she stepped onto the zebra crossing. It was a quiet street, no traffic lights needed. She never saw the Range Rover coming. The screech of brakes hit her ears, and she froze, shoulders hunched, hands over her face.
“Trying to get yourself killed? Fancy an early grave?” A furious voice cut through the air.
Emily lowered her hands. A tall man stood beside the car, dark eyes blazing, his sharp jawline softened slightly by a well-groomed beard. He wore a black coat, left hanging open, and looked every bit the kind of man you’d daydream about—if he weren’t shouting at you.
“Oh, so just because you’ve got a fancy car, everyone should jump out of your way?” she shot back. “No traffic lights here. And the road was empty. I wasn’t breaking any rules—you were the one speeding around the corner. People walk here, you know.”
He studied her for a moment.
“Right. I was in a rush. If you’re fine, I’ll be off. Apologies.” He tossed the last word over his shoulder as he climbed back into the car.
Emily’s hands shook long after. Nearly run over, and then yelled at. The next day, the rain had stopped. She took her time crossing, stepping carefully onto the zebra. A car door slammed nearby, and she instinctively retreated to the pavement. The same man climbed out of a parked Range Rover and strolled toward her, grinning.
“God, now what? Go ahead, I’ll wait,” she said, nerves fluttering at the sight of him.
“Actually, I waited for you. Wanted to make up for yesterday. Fancy lunch? My treat—call it an apology.” His smile was dazzling.
“No urgent meetings today?” she asked warily.
In the café, time slipped away. She noticed the wedding ring straight away. Married. Her chest tightened. He was a solicitor, father of two little girls. Asked for her number and immediately called it so she’d save his.
*Just in case.*
She never planned to ring him. But two days later, he called, inviting her to a café on the other side of London—somewhere they wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew.
“People talk. Don’t want rumours,” he explained.
Somehow, he started coming to her flat. Never often, never for long. Always unexpected. Weekends and holidays, she sat alone, missing him. He’d been clear from the start—he’d never leave his wife, adored his kids.
She never asked why he kept coming. Didn’t want to sound foolish, didn’t want to scare him off. She’d fallen hard, and even stolen moments felt like enough. It wasn’t as if she’d had much luck with men before.
***
That Saturday, Emily stayed in bed late. No rush. No one to impress. She lingered by the window in her dressing gown, hair messy, when the buzzer rang. She didn’t even glance at the mirror before opening the door.
James swept in like a storm, crushed her in his arms, muttered between kisses that he only had half an hour. When he left as abruptly as he’d arrived, she showered and returned to the window. The frost had melted, leaving the pavement slick.
*This is it. This is all love is for me. A whirlwind, never time to talk. But he made time for me… that means something.* Her heart raced, body still humming from his touch. She wrapped her arms around herself.
How long could this last? How long before the crumbs of affection stopped being enough? One day, he just wouldn’t show. She should end it now—before it got worse. But walking away wasn’t easy when you loved someone.
That week, he didn’t visit. Then on Friday, his name flashed on her phone.
“Meet me for dinner. Miss you. Only got an hour. Traffic’s a nightmare—take the Tube.” He rattled off an address and hung up.
Emily scrambled. Grabbed her coat, looped a scarf carelessly around her neck, swiped on lipstick.
“Cover for me? Toothache. Please?” she said to Sophie at the next desk.
“Course,” Sophie smirked, nodding.
Emily fastened her coat as she walked to the Tube, eyes fixed ahead. She barely noticed the old man until she jostled him. His cane clattered to the ground.
“Sorry!” She scooped it up, handing it back.
“S’alright. Off to see someone special? Used to rush like that myself. Nowhere to hurry to these days.”
Emily’s gaze dropped to the four daisies clutched in his hand. *Daisies in November?*
“Sorry,” she said again, softer.
“Ah, don’t be. Run while you can. Your young man’s waiting. I’d run to my Margaret, but these legs won’t let me.”
*How did he know?*
“You’re visiting someone? Your wife?”
“Aye. Used to go every day after she passed. Not so easy now. Feels like my time’s coming soon, though. We’ll be together again. Sixty years married. Loved her every second.” He smiled sadly. “You remind me of her, young like that.”
Her phone buzzed.
“Better not keep you,” he said, shuffling off.
James’s name flashed on the screen. “Where *are* you? I’ve got no time left—hurry up!”
She ended the call. Turned the phone off. Looked back at the old man, now at the crossing. The road was busy. She remembered nearly being hit by James’s car and ran after him.
“Let me help,” she said, taking his arm. A car honked impatiently.
“Ta. Not that I’d mind getting run over now,” he joked, walking away.
She watched him go. *That’s the love I want. Sixty years. Someone who’d still bring me daisies in November.*
Emily turned and walked back to work.
“Toothache better?” Sophie asked.
“Sorted itself out,” Emily lied, sitting down.
At home, she saw James’s texts. She hesitated. How many times had she imagined calling him? Pictured him fumbling for words if his wife answered. Could she really tell another woman the truth?
Her phone buzzed. James.
“What the hell was that? Couldn’t even call to cancel?”
“Were you waiting?” She hated how pleased she felt that he was angry.
“Emily, what’s going on?”
She took a shaky breath. “I just want a family. Breakfast together. Nights in the same bed. Not… this.”
“I never lied to you. I told you—”
“Honest to who? *Her?* Me?”
“Don’t start this now,” he snapped.
“I can’t do it anymore.” She hung up.
He didn’t call back.
Night fell. She walked out without an umbrella, past glowing shop windows, until the rain drove her under an awning.
A guy stopped. “Need an escort home?” He held a broken umbrella.
She liked that about him—the broken bit. No pretence.
They talked about nothing. The rain stopped.
“Fancy a walk? If you’re not in a rush,” he asked, hopeful.
Emily smiled. “Not in a rush anymore.”
