Ephemeral Bloom

The pale pink was a whim, of course. A distraction from the endless succession of beige and grey that formed the backdrop to my life.
He'd sent them—the balloons. An absurd gesture, really, for someone who usually communicates through layers of intermediaries and carefully worded statements.
It had been six months since our paths last crossed in Monaco, a chance encounter at a charity gala where his gaze lingered too long on the curve of my neck. Six months of calculated silence.
Now this. A childish offering, yet…it stirred something within me. An almost forgotten flicker of warmth against the glacial perfection I cultivate.
I traced the silk ribbon in my hair, mirroring the bows adorning each balloon. Such delicate things, easily broken. Like trust.
He'd be arriving soon, and for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, I hadn’t instructed security to turn him away.

Editor: Champagne Noir