The Roses

Does it ever happen to you to wish to talk to somebody? Just  somebody. Anyone.  A stranger you might meet. Just to talk. About anything, even of the rain. Of the sore you have on your foot, of the daffodil in bloom, of everything and nothing. This lady sat at my table in a café. There were many empty chairs ... She had little to say and I nothing. She drank her coffee, I mine. Our eyes met. It is then that she started to talk about her garden, her roses, roses that were just blooming and the beauty of which she liked to share with someone, even with a stranger.