Scarlet petals peek from muted green and black as Lex tells me about her plans to leave the city.

I need space from him, she says, taking a step back and pinning her hand under her chin as she cranes her neck up to examine the painting.

And of course the city isn’t enough?

Well, we live like three blocks apart. We go to the same coffee shop. Take the same route to work.

The subway has multiple cars

You know what I mean.

Sorry, I just want you to stay.

But, like seriously. Surely you know what I mean? You came here for the same reason.

Petals unfurled, curling up towards the artificial sun; stigmas protracted and eager, waiting for the sharp long beak of the hummingbird perched, contemplative, on the branch nearby. Which ones has he already visited? Which invite him in: eager to share their nectar? One, clamped up, another petals furled down—exhausted.

That was different, I tell her. But I’m not so sure it was. I left—years ago. The fallout of a situationship proved too much for me. Obsessed with him and craving more, I kept waiting for his every message, tracings his steps, eying his social media. It was no place to be.

I broke things off with him. That’s what I never tell her. I told him some lie about us growing apart or me not being as interested anymore. After the parting I saw him everywhere: coffee shops and our local gym. I saw him at the grocery store and when I was biking to work. He never saw me, at least I assumed. Instead, I watched him, hungry for reconciliation. I kept hoping our eyes would lock and, startled but happy, he would invite me for a drink or a cup of coffee. Together we would sip and recount our lives apart. Then: flower bloom, petals opening. You know the story.

Yeah, I say, shuffling my feet against the scuffed tile. I do. I really do.