Lance Sweets leaned over the piano, letting the music pour out with each tap of the keys. Even though he had worked with the FBI as a psychologist for the last three years, which he mostly enjoyed, he still loved getting back in touch with his passion for music. He had taken lessons as a teenager at the insistence of his (adoptive) parents, and soon found it to be his new favorite pastime.
A slender young lady in a floor-length ice blue dress with strawberry blonde hair leaned against the piano as he played. When the song ended, she handed him a small scrap of paper with a wink. He nodded at her gently then unfolded the slip of paper. In a fancy script was her phone number with her name scrawled underneath it. Marigold. Was this some kind of joke?
They say that when you have someone on your mind, their name pops up everywhere, but this was ridiculous. It was as if every lady named after a flower within twenty miles this place was a regular customer. Within his first month on the job, he'd been hit on by enough "Roses" and "Lilies" and "Violets" to fill a garden.
But never a "Daisy." Alas, his Daisy was halfway around the world from him. His Daisy. Even though he was the one who told her that he probably wouldn't wait for her during her time in Indonesia, it seemed his subconscious mind still hadn't caught up to that fact. It's been over a month since she left, and he certainly didn't wish he had gone with her instead. Why couldn't he just get over her already? It wasn't like she was completely flawless, and neither was their relationship. Still, as imperfect they were, they were imperfectly perfect for each other, it seemed. Still, he said that he wouldn't wait for her and she shouldn't wait for him. By now, she probably could have easily found somebody else. Why does love always have to be so complicated like this?
You can't live with 'em. You can't live without 'em. There's something irresistible-ish about 'em. We grin and bear it 'cause the nights are long, but I hope that something better comes along.