A Bouquet of Daisies in November
Aimee tightened her dressing gown and stepped to the window. Barely any leaves clung to the trees. A thin, frosty glaze coated the withered grass and the roof of the neighbouring house. Last evening, a drizzle had fallen, and by night, the cold had seized the air. A bleak November—just the prelude to the relentless winter ahead.
Aimee sighed. A gloom outside, a heaviness in her heart. Another weekend stuck at home alone. Aching loneliness.
***
It was November then, too. On her lunch break, Aimee dashed across the road from the office to the café where they sold takeaway. She and the girls took turns doing the run. A light rain misted the air, but she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella—too awkward to manage bags of food with one.
The road was empty. She stepped confidently onto the zebra crossing. It was a quiet street, no traffic light at the crossing. She didn’t see the Range Rover until it careened around the corner. The screech of brakes jolted her. She froze, shoulders hunched, hands shielding her face.
“You got a death wish or something?” A man’s furious shout cut through the air.
She lowered her hands. A tall man in an unbuttoned black coat stood beside the car, dark eyes blazing. His sharp jawline, neatly framed by designer stubble, only made him more striking.
“You could’ve killed me!” she shot back. “No traffic light here—pedestrians have right of way. Maybe slow down next time?”
He studied her a moment. “I was in a rush. If you’re fine, I’ll go. Sorry.” The apology was tossed over his shoulder as he strode back to the car.
She trembled for ages. Nearly run over, then shouted at.
The next day, the rain had stopped. Aimee took her time crossing, wary now. Suddenly, a car door slammed. She flinched back onto the pavement. The same man stepped out of a parked Range Rover and sauntered toward her, grinning.
“What now?” she said hesitantly, pulse quickening at the sight of him.
“I wanted to apologise properly. Let me buy you lunch—compensation for yesterday.” His smile revealed perfect teeth.
They sat in the café, and she forgot everything else. Then she saw the wedding ring. Married. Her chest ached. A lawyer, father of two girls, he took her number and called it immediately—just in case she ever needed legal help.
She never planned to call. But two days later, he did. He invited her to a café on the other side of town, where no one would recognise them.
“People know me. Don’t want gossip,” he explained.
Somehow, he started showing up at her place. Never often. Never predictable. Never for long. Weekends and holidays, she sat alone, yearning for him. He’d made it clear—he wouldn’t leave his wife, adored his kids.
So why did he come? She bit back the question, afraid to ruin what little she had. She was in love. Those stolen moments—his generosity, his heat—were enough.
***
By Saturday, Aimee stayed in bed late. No reason to rush, no one to look nice for. She lingered at the window, unbrushed hair tangled around her face. The buzzer startled her.
Oliver swept in like a summer storm, arms locking around her, kisses peppered between hurried words. “Only got half an hour…” When he vanished as quickly as he’d come, she showered and returned to the window. The frost had melted. The pavement gleamed wet, as though rain had fallen.
This was love? Always fleeting. A whirlwind. No time to breathe. Still, she told herself—he’d made time. That mattered.
Her body hummed from his touch. Her heart refused to settle.
How long could this last? How long before the crumbs of affection weren’t enough?
She wouldn’t be the other woman forever. But leaving hurt too much.
That week, Oliver never came. Friday, his call startled her—dinner, now.
“Missed you, gorgeous. Got an hour. Meet me at the restaurant. Traffic’s bad—take the Tube.” The line went dead.
Aimee scrambled. Yanked on her coat, swiped on lipstick.
“Cover for me?” she begged her colleague, Lisa. “Toothache. Please?”
“Sure.” Lisa smirked knowingly.
She fumbled with her coat buttons on the way to the Tube, oblivious to the crowd. Then—she jostled an old man. His cane clattered to the pavement.
“Sorry!” She scooped it up, handed it back.
“S’alright,” he chuckled. “Off to see your sweetheart? At your age, I ran blind to my dates too. Now? No rush. She’ll keep.”
Aimee’s gaze dropped. Four daisies, clutched in his hand. November daisies.
“Visiting your wife?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Every day, since she passed. Feels like my time’s near too. Glad she went first—spared her this loneliness.” His eyes, milky with age, held hers. “You remind me of her.”
Her phone buzzed. Oliver. “Where are you? I don’t have all day!”
She hung up. The phone rang again—insistent, angry. She silenced it.
The old man shuffled toward the crossing. Aimee darted after him, threading her arm through his. “Let me help.”
A car honked impatiently.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “At my age, death’s no fear.”
She watched him go, heart aching. That’s what she wanted—a love that lasted. Someone who’d bring her flowers in November.
Back at work, Lisa frowned. “That was quick.”
“Tooth’s better,” Aimee lied.
At home, unread messages from Oliver glowed on her phone. She imagined calling—his wife answering, suspicious. Or worse, Oliver fumbling her name.
The phone vibrated.
“What the hell, Aimee? Why stand me up?” he snarled.
“Did you even notice?” Her voice cracked.
“I told you—I’m married. I won’t leave her.”
“And that makes it okay?”
“Don’t start this,” he sighed, already weary of her.
She hung up. No callback came.
Night fell. She left without an umbrella, wandering past glowing shopfronts until rain chased her under an awning.
People hurried past. Tyres hissed on wet tarmac.
“Need an umbrella?”
A man stood there—ordinary, holding a broken-spoked brolly.
She stepped toward him. By the time they reached her door, the rain had stopped.
“Fancy a walk? If you’re not busy,” he asked, hopeful.
Aimee smiled. “Not busy at all.”
