**A Bouquet of Daisies in November**
*Diary Entry*
I tightened the belt of my dressing gown and wandered to the window. Barely any leaves clung to the trees. A thin layer of frost coated the withered grass and the roof of the house next door. Last night, drizzle had seeped into the pavement, and by morning, it had frozen. A cold, gloomy November—just the bleak prelude to an endless winter.
I sighed. Melancholy outside, melancholy inside. Another weekend alone. Another weekend spent staring at these walls.
—
That November had been no different. On my lunch break, I dashed to the café across from the office, where they did takeaway. The girls and I took turns fetching food. A light rain misted the air, but I hadn’t brought an umbrella—too inconvenient when juggling paper bags.
The road was empty, so I stepped boldly onto the zebra crossing. No traffic lights here, just a quiet street. I never saw the SUV swing round the corner. The screech of brakes jolted me, freezing me mid-step. My hands flew up, shielding my face.
*”Trying to get yourself killed? Fancy a trip to the morgue?”*
I lowered my hands. A man stood beside the car, dark eyes burning with irritation.
*”Look where you’re going. If you wanted to get run over, try Oxford Street next time,”* he snapped.
It wasn’t his words that stunned me—it was him. Tall, with a sharp jawline accentuated by a well-groomed beard, draped in a long black coat left casually open. The kind of man you’d see in magazines.
*”Oh, so just because you drive a flash car, people should scatter? There’s no traffic light here. And the road was empty. I did nothing wrong—I was on the crossing. Maybe slow down at corners?”*
He studied me a moment.
*”I was in a rush. If you’re alright, I’ll go.”* His apology was tossed over his shoulder as he strode back to the car.
I stood there shaking. Nearly hit, then shouted at. But the next day, the rain had stopped. I took my time crossing, pausing cautiously at the kerb. Then—a car door slammed. I stumbled back onto the pavement.
And there he was, the same man, leaning against his SUV, grinning.
*”God, what now? Go ahead, I’ll wait,”* I said, pulse quickening despite myself.
*”I waited for you. To make amends for yesterday. Fancy lunch? My treat—peace offering.”* His smile was dazzling.
*”No hurry today?”* I asked, wary.
Over coffee, I learned he was a lawyer. Married. Two daughters. He asked for my number and called it immediately so I’d have his. *”In case you need legal help.”*
I never intended to call. But he did the next day—asking to meet across town, somewhere discreet.
*”I’m known. Don’t want gossip.”*
Somehow, he started coming to my flat. Never often, never planned. Just fleeting visits. Weekends, I sat alone, missing him. Holidays too. He’d been clear: *”I won’t leave my wife. I adore my girls.”*
I bit back the obvious question: *Then why are you here?* Too afraid to scare him off. I was in love, content with scraps of his time.
—
This Saturday, I lazed in bed. No reason to rush. No one to dress for. The doorbell rang—I answered still in my gown, hair unbrushed.
Anthony swept in like a gust of wind, arms around me, murmuring between kisses that he only had half an hour. When he left as suddenly as he’d arrived, I showered and returned to the window. The frost had melted, the pavement glistening like after rain.
*This is love? A whirlwind visit, no time to talk. But he spared half an hour. That means something.* My heart wouldn’t settle, body still humming from his touch.
How long could I live like this? Scraps of affection, no future. He’d stop coming eventually. I needed to end it first—before it ruined me. But leaving someone you love? Impossible.
He didn’t visit that week. Then, on Friday, a call: *”Meet me. I’ve got an hour.”*
I scrambled—coat, scarf, a swipe of lipstick. *”Cover for me? Toothache,”* I lied to Gemma at the next desk.
On the way to the Tube, I bumped into an old man. His cane clattered to the ground. I picked it up, apologising.
*”Off to see your young man?”* he chuckled. *”I was the same. Now? No one left to hurry for.”*
Four daisies drooped in his hand. Daisies in November? Then it hit me—four, one for each decade without his wife.
*”She’s gone. But I still visit. Every day, till I join her.”*
My phone rang—Anthony, impatient. *”Where are you?”*
I hung up. The old man shuffled toward the crossing. I caught his arm, guiding him through honking traffic.
*”Thank you. At my age, death doesn’t scare me.”*
That’s the love I wanted. A lifetime together. Someone who’d miss me. Who’d bring daisies in November.
I turned back to the office.
*”That was quick,”* Gemma said.
*”Tooth’s better.”*
At home, ignored calls from Anthony piled up. Part of me wanted to dial—then pictured him fumbling, his wife listening. No. She didn’t deserve that.
When he called again, furious, I let the words spill:
*”I want a family. Breakfasts together. Waiting up. Not stolen hours.”*
*”You knew the deal,”* he snapped.
*”Honest to who?”*
Silence. Then the line went dead.
I stepped outside, umbrella forgotten. Rain began. A stranger offered shelter under his broken brolly.
*”I’ll walk you home.”*
Something about him—the dented spoke, the kind eyes—made me say yes.
The rain stopped.
*”Fancy a walk?”* he asked, hopeful.
I smiled. *”No rush now.”*
