Midget
By Rey
62. Language of Flowers
I plead off watching the remaining "movies."
Thankfully, Atlanta relents. She leaves me in peace, again browsing her eclectic collection of books.
Hoping that I have chosen a safer topic, I pick up a book titled The Language of Flowers and discreetly, cautiously peruse it.
Only Mother knows that I love flowers, from their blooms and fragrances to studies about them, as far as I know. I even swore her to secrecy, and she went with it willingly for my sake.
For a very, very good reason.
The both of us know that flowers as well as other "light, delicate things" are the purview of the womenfolk, and I have been called ergi often enough behind my back.
But, interestingly, here, in this so-called "backward" realm, there is a whole set of meanings in a piece or a bouquet of flowers given and received by both men and women!
It is a delicate, secretive language of fragrant signs and pleasing visual cues, and I find myself loving it.
I shall copy this book for Mother and myself, should my hostess allow it.
I care not that this language is not well-known world-wide, also outdated, according to Atlanta.
I love it.