Eyes closed, concentrating, I heard the click of heels on marble. She’d returned! Wearing a short skirt, she knelt carefully to gather the bouquet in, straightened, and spotted the fallen petals...
No – he’d come back. He stopped over the flowers, glanced round (everyone looked away), and stooped to pick them up. Then he examined them closely, his expression unreadable. Unseen beneath his feet the petals turned to pulp...
No. It was the gate attendant. I boarded, leaving the case unsolved and worse – uncategorized. So which one was it: crime of passion, or the lack thereof?
Photo by Ron Thompson at Barcelona Airport, August 2013
See how it began here.
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