**A Bouquet of Daisies in November**
Emily tightened her robe and stepped to the window. Barely a leaf clung to the trees outside. A faint white frost had settled over the withered grass and the roof of the neighbouring house. Yesterday’s drizzle had turned icy overnight. Cold, grey November—just the bleak prelude to a long, hard winter.
She sighed. The melancholy outside mirrored the ache in her chest. Another lonely weekend spent indoors. Another weekend of emptiness.
***
It had been November then, too. During her lunch break, Emily had dashed to the café across from her office—the usual spot where she and her colleagues took turns grabbing takeaway. A light rain fell, but she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. Too awkward to juggle food bags with one.
The road was empty as she stepped onto the zebra crossing. It was a quiet street, no traffic lights at this crossing. She hadn’t seen the Range Rover speeding around the corner—only heard the screech of brakes. Frozen in panic, she ducked her head, shielding her face with her hands.
“Trying to get yourself killed? Got a death wish?” snapped a furious voice.
She lowered her hands. A tall man in an open black coat stood by the car, dark eyes blazing. His strong jaw, accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard, only sharpened his glare.
She should’ve been stung by his rudeness. Instead, she was struck by him—every inch the kind of man she’d daydreamed about.
“Just because you’ve got a flash car, you think everyone should leap out your way?” she shot back. “No traffic light here, and the road was empty. Maybe slow down before the bend. People do walk, you know.”
He studied her a moment, then exhaled sharply. “I was in a rush. If you’re alright, I’ll go. Sorry.” The apology was tossed over his shoulder as he turned away.
The shock lingered long after. Nearly run over, then yelled at—what luck.
The next day, the rain had stopped. Emily took her time crossing the street, pausing at the zebra crossing. Suddenly, a car door slammed nearby. Instinctively, she stepped back.
Out of the same Range Rover stepped *him*—sauntering toward her now, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
“Good grief, now what? Go ahead, I’ll wait,” she said, nerves fluttering at the sight of him.
“I wanted to apologise properly,” he said, flashing perfect teeth. “Let me buy you lunch. Consider it compensation for yesterday’s rudeness.”
“No pressing meetings today?” she asked warily.
But in the café, she forgot everything—except the glint of a wedding ring on his finger.
*Married.*
Her chest tightened.
He was a solicitor, father of two girls. He took her number, calling it immediately so she’d save his—*just in case.* Legal advice, if she ever needed it.
She hadn’t planned to call.
Two days later, he did. Invited her for lunch across town—somewhere discreet, where they wouldn’t be recognised. *Too many people know me. Don’t want gossip.*
Somehow, he started dropping by her flat—never for long, always unexpected. Weekends and holidays, she sat alone, missing him.
*I won’t leave my wife*, he’d said early on. *Adore my girls. Could never walk away.*
The question burned her tongue: *Then why come here?* But she bit it back, terrified of seeming foolish, of pushing him away. She was in love. And she clung to the scraps of happiness he offered.
***
On Saturday, Emily lazed in bed. No rush to get ready—no one to see. She drifted to the window, robe loose, hair unbrushed. When the doorbell rang, she barely glanced in the mirror before answering.
James swept in like a whirlwind, crushing her in his arms. Between kisses, he murmured he only had half an hour…
And then he was gone, as abruptly as he’d come.
She showered, then stood again at the window. The frost had melted; the pavement gleamed wet.
*That’s all love is, then. Always alone. He swoops in, barely time to talk, then vanishes. But he made time—on a weekend. That’s something.* She hugged herself, heart still fluttering from his touch.
But how long could this last? How long before she tired of these stolen moments, this life without a future?
He didn’t visit that week. But on Friday, his call came.
“Missed you, darling. Got an hour free. Meet me at The Oak. Roads are a nightmare—take the Tube.”
She scrambled—coat yanked from the wardrobe, scarf hastily looped, a quick dab of lipstick.
“Cover for me?” she whispered to Sophie at the next desk. “Toothache.”
Sophie smirked but nodded.
Emily buttoned her coat on the way to the station, blind to everything ahead. Until she bumped into an old man. His cane clattered to the pavement.
“Sorry!” She snatched it up, handing it back.
“No harm done,” he chuckled. “Off to see your beau, eh? At your age, I dashed just the same. Nowhere to rush to now. She’ll wait.”
Her gaze dropped to the four daisies in his hand. *Daisies. In November.*
Four—why four?
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Ah, don’t be. Run while you can.” He sighed. “I’d run to my Margaret, if these old legs could.”
*How did he know?* she wondered.
“Visiting someone?” she asked softly.
“Aye. My wife. Went every day after she passed. Now… well, my time’s coming too. Funny… I’m glad she went first. Spared her this loneliness.” His eyes crinkled. “You’ve got her look, you know.”
Her phone buzzed—that jaunty ringtone.
“Best not keep him waiting,” the old man said, shuffling off.
She answered.
“Emily, where *are* you? I haven’t got all day—”
She hung up.
When it rang again, she silenced it.
The old man was nearing the crossing now—traffic heavy on a Friday. She darted after him.
“Let me help.” She took his arm, guiding him across.
A car honked impatiently.
“Ta, love,” he said. “Though at my age, who fears a car?”
She watched him hobble away.
*That’s the love I want. A lifetime together. Someone who’d miss me like that—who’d bring daisies in November.*
She turned back toward the office.
“That was quick,” Sophie said.
“Tooth’s fine,” Emily lied.
At home, she found texts from James.
She stared at her phone, imagining calling him—his wife answering, his awkward stammering.
The phone vibrated. *Him.*
“What the hell was that? Couldn’t bloody call?”
“Did you wait?” she asked, perversely pleased by his irritation.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing. Just… I want a family. Kids. Waking up beside someone. Waiting for him to come home—like your wife does. I’m tired of scraps.”
“I *told* you I wasn’t leaving her—”
“Honest with *who*?” she whispered.
“Oh, not this—”
“James, I can’t do this anymore. You never ask about *my* life—only yours.”
She hung up.
No call came back.
*And that’s that.*
She stepped outside—no umbrella, just wandering past shop windows until the rain drove her under an awning.
A man with a broken-spoked umbrella stopped.
“Let me walk you.”
For some reason, that broken spoke charmed her.
As they walked, the rain stopped.
“Fancy a bit longer? If you’re not rushing,” he asked, hopeful.
She smiled.
“Not rushing at all.”
