Everyday She comes home, parks her car in the same right side driveway, the left side belongs to the couple upstairs. She opens the door to see the same couch leaning on the wallpaper with tiny flower prints. My housekeeper came, she said to herself. That’s when the stove is shining and the coffee pot washed clean and glinting from the light on the ceiling.
But something’s different today, on the corner by the formal dining table, a bunch of red roses, no note or card, as she continuously turns the vase around and around checking for any message that should’ve come with it.
Feeling avenge and egoist, I knew he thinks of me. After so many months of going in and out of a relationship, she finally earned the courage to stay away from him, it’s now two months. His face etched on each detail in her life, his eyes, smile, arms that caress my shoulders when they cross the street. Finally, this time she haven’t initiated any move at all, feeling guilty for giving up the white flag all the time. I knew he’ll miss me, grinnning to herself. She even stopped checking facebook so as not to see any of those faces associated with him.
Leaving the flowers where they are, for many days, changing the water so it last, but inside a victorious smile sometimes sarcastic, that only she enjoys as she gaze around it day after day.
As she comes home on the fourth day tired from traffic, dropping her take home job by the door, a small folded card came out just beside the crevice. This must be the mystery lover, saying to herself.
Her left hand pick up the note, the right hand unfolding, it says ” thank you so much for opening an account with us, we sent you these flowers as a token of gratitude, your neighborhood bank”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Admirers.”