She stroks the petals of the daisy carefully so not to pull one out. Immediately she remembers the childhood "he loves me, he loves me not" ritual. A smirk emerges from the corner of her mouth stretching her lips far enough to catch the salty tear as it runs down her cheek.
Wiping the tear away she can't gather the nerve to toss the flower to the ground.
"How the hell could he do this to me?"
She is sitting with her feet close and her legs tucked in front of her. She rests her chin back on her knees. Normally a day like this in a city like Chicago would have her walking with him through the park. He would blush as she caught him checking out the view from the neckline of her tank top. She would have a book like "The Prophet" and he would have a magazine like "Sports Illustrated". He would have the ratty green towel over his shoulder so they could sit on the ground without getting too dirty.
Her knees support her chin and she gets lost in the soft center of the flower. "Are daisies weeds?" She says it out loud and half expects him to answer. He knew all that science shit. He loved to correct her when she lumped tomatoes with vegetables or called a whale a 'big fish'. Then it was annoying and made her feel stupid. The thought of it now makes it hurt that much more.
"Fuck you..." she says clearly and a bit louder than she expected (half-wanting him to hear).