She was a girl in a flower shop. A girl named Marigold. And it was the first time I ever felt the twinges of pain which accompany love.
Her slender, golden fingers wrapped the flowers for my mother's bouquet.
Her slender, golden fingers punched the keys at the register.
Her slender, golden fingers handed me my slip.
Her slender, golden fingers donned a ring which couldn't be mistaken.
Her slender, golden fingers were my barrier.
It was only a smile, a smile to return my own. But in that smile, along those crooked white teeth a story rested on her lips. A story of happiness I could not give her.
And I knew.
Her slender, golden fingers trilled along the counters.
Her slender, golden fingers arranged daisies and spider mums.
Her slender, golden fingers forgot all about me.
Her slender, golden fingers were in good hands.
Her slender, golden fingers were well loved.
The pangs of love strike deep and hard, but rarely do we find, in perfect timing, our soul mates in a flower shop.
