Perfection
Gail A. Webber
Lily ached to touch it, the purple petals so vivid they gleamed. Its leaves would be fuzzy, like a cat’s nose, and the flowers velvety. It was perfect, and she could almost feel the tingly electric shock the plant would give her. But she wouldn’t touch it. Contact wounded African violets, and this beauty deserved protection.
It deserved repotting, too. The yellow plastic pot was hideous, but the violet hadn’t complained. Lily had to listen closely to hear violets because they whispered. Stepping back from the window, she projected admiration and positive energy, but the violet remained silent. Wrapped up in yourself, I see, as only lovely things can be.
This was the first time she’d been to Matthew’s apartment, and it was only so he could change clothes. He’d
