Her husband always sped up approaching the flower seller.
A fierce impulsion drew him subtly forward.
Every day on their wintry walks, with icy silence between them
His gaze burned over the street, his arm stiff beneath her palm.
There she stood. Fleur. Auburn locks framing her scarlet bud of a
mouth. Pinafore and wooden shoes enhaning her shapely beauty. Like
Honeysuckle, she needed no adornment. She glowed within.
Beautiful and green-eyed, in November drizzle.
Did her husband know she knew his infidelity? No.
He had always thought her blind. What would he think then, if he
knew what a fire burned within his wife’s breast:
That the flower seller made her wetter than the cobblestones.
© Tom Tide 2016