You know he likes blue. The colour, whatever particular shade it comes in, is just somehow very alluring to him. He likes the greeny blues, the turquoises and aquamarines. Cerulean is a favourite blue synonym of his, and he'll use it whatever chance he gets.
You find yourself seeking out flowers for him. When you're in a romantic mood, which surprisingly enough isn't anything too rare, you'll wander through the forest for an evening walk until you stumble upon a patch of bluebells or forget-me-nots. You always bring your pocket knife and brown parcel paper with you and you'll cut a good chunk of the blooms from the grass and wrap them in the paper. You'll pin them to his door with a note so that he'll be greeted with them when he gets home from work. You revel in the flushed smiles and grateful giggles he gives you the next day, when you cycle past his house on the way to work.
"I don't know where this odd habit of yours came from," he'd smile, "But golly I can't say I'm not flattered."
His house becomes full of little bouquets of blue blooms, presented nicely in vases or hung up to dry in the sun over his window. Whenever he has visitors over they're bound to ask where he's getting all these lovely flowers from, and he'll just reply that a friend picks them for him, because he can hardly tell anyone the real reason why you supply him with such gorgeous plants.
Whilst he never grows tired of your floral gifts you begin to think that he must be getting bored of just bluebells and forget-me-nots all the time, and you seek out some new, blue blooms to leave at his door.
You buy blue alliums and hyacinths from the local florists, and he's enthralled by their exotic shape and impossibly bright blue. You venture further into the woods than you usually would on your evening walks and discover small clusters of Chilean blue crocus and Ipomoea. You consult his Grandmother on the matter and she gives you access to her huge greenhouse, full of all sorts of exotic plant life from her worldwide travels; you choose Himalayan blue poppies and climbing dayflowers from her extensive collection, and thank her for letting you take a few from the crop. She tells you whenever you're looking for plant advice, just ask.
Eventually you even end up asking him what kind of flowers he likes and he tells you that Brazilian Snapdragons and Plumbago used to grow in abundance when he still lived on the island, and once again you find yourself meticulously combing through his Grandmother's greenhouses for them.
Finding the perfect shade of blue for him becomes a hobby, and the two of you start taking your evening walks together, picking flowers hand in hand and deciding where in his house they would look best. Your yourself find having a house bare of any plant life perfectly tolerable, and don't mind the lack of brightly coloured flowers decorating your windowsills and table tops.
That is until one day you wheel your bike to your front door and find a note written in unmistakably scruffy handwriting pinned to a small bouquet of Californian Poppies. You read the note.
My turn.
Jake.