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We met beneath the red flowers because neither of us knew where else to put our autumn. You ordered tea. I watched the steam climb between us and disappear. There were so many things I had carried there for you. A winter. Three apologies. The afternoon you left. A foolish little hope I had kept alive far longer than dignity required. But you smiled. And suddenly all my carefully rehearsed sentences became too heavy for such a small table. Outside, rain loosened the city. Windows became rivers. Streetlights became moons. People became shadows passing through blue. Only the flowers remained red. One petal fell between us. Your hand moved. Mine almost did. Perhaps that was our entire love story: two hands crossing most of the distance, and tenderness leaving the final inch untouched. Years later I will forget what you wore. I will forget which tea we drank. Perhaps I will even forget the sound of your voice. But somewhere inside me there will always be a tiny blue café, two white cups, one falling red petal, and the astonishing distance between almost and yes.
