daisy.

He loves me, he loves me not.

She sits on the porch steps, picking golden petals off the daisy held in her hand. This is her ritual, every afternoon, 5:10 pm. She has to end on ‘he loves me’. Everything is okay if she lands on that. If she ends on the latter, she does it again. And again. Three times. He brushes past her on his way inside, barely noticing she is even there. She swallows. 

He loves me not.

She sighs, tossing the wasted flower to the ground, picking another. She begins once again. Third time’s the charm.