Flowers on the Snow
What really happened on March 25 at 2:48 p.m.?
A few days ago, I shared this photo on my French side of Substack and invited anyone who felt like it to imagine the story behind this bouquet. The responses were rich, tender, funny, surprising. I wanted to try this in English as well, to see what might emerge here too.
What story do you see in this bouquet?
Here’s my version… I felt like playing too.
He had said: same hotel, same room. I fumble a bit with the elevator doors. Upstairs, an endless corridor—the standardized highway of a faceless hotel. I take off my coat, fold it over my arm. I move fast, almost running, my wet boots slipping on the worn carpet that swallows sound. Room 328, just like 330, like 419. Hurry, hurry, this stolen time is never enough. I’m already unbuttoning my blouse; the glass reflects a woman determined, in love, already disheveled. Yes, that’s her. I knock three short times. Too hard… I hurt my hand.
He opens. My momentum stops. Flowers? His smile falters as he realizes the mistake.
I grab the bouquet, laughing out loud.
What was he thinking?
These tulips, beautiful, inconvenient, impossible to take home. I set them down beside the coffee maker we won’t use.
I turn to him, sitting on the bed, a little uneasy, and jump onto his lap with a kind of carefree ease. No more flowers. Just us. This game without promises, these moments outside of time where tulips bloom in Holland and cherry trees in Japan. The sheets unfold on their own, an instant battlefield.
The door closes behind us; coats back on, bouquet in hand. He drops me off a few blocks away, careful not to draw attention. But what am I supposed to do with these flowers? At a red light, I roll the window down. Cold air rushes in. Without thinking, I throw the bouquet into the snow. A burst of laughter, mine, wide and bright. His follows, knowing, without a word.
The light turns green.