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He’s taking up two seats on the train with his oversized bunch of flowers. He’s one of those sorts who doesn’t even attempt to clear the seat of his belongings even though the train is full. It couldn’t be more of a cliché on Valentine’s day. It isn’t a bouquet bought hurriedly at the station or a dog-eaten one from a supermarket which will die in two days, but a sculptured, ostentatious display which says more about him than what he feels for his beloved. Someone has put a lot of thought into those flowers, balancing the colours of the orchids and completing the piece of art with a green bamboo leaf twisted back on itself.

Then he gets out his mobile, dials a number and starts talking loudly – of course he’s one of those.

‘Hi – will you pick me up at the station?’ he asks.

He’s frowning. He isn’t getting the response he wants.

‘You only need to loiter around … Well if it’s too difficult, then leave it. No, leave it. That’s fine. I’ll get a taxi.’

He’s angry. The other person wants to talk, to explain, but he doesn’t want to have that kind of conversation on a packed commuter carriage. There’s no room for discussion or negotiation. Time to shut the conversation down. Have they had talks like that before, where they fail to communicate, both meaning well but ending up at cross purposes?

So the flowers, are they an apology for a previous outburst, a gesture of love or simply what one ought to do for Valentine’s day? Will they make her feel guilty that she didn’t get the car out to pick him up, even though she does worry about finding somewhere to park? Or perhaps he won’t even give the flowers to her and will dump them outside the ticket office for anyone to pick up. Or he’ll fling them from the taxi window after waiting fifteen minutes in the rain.

Then as the train approaches the next station, the young woman sitting opposite scoops up the bouquet and heads for the door.

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