“What shall I do with this one?” 

He turned and looked at her hands holding the pure white flower, still a bud, with rows and rows and rows of petals ready to burst any day now.

“There was one left? I thought we had finished!”

She shook her head, frowning slightly.

“No, I had said there was one left. You never listen to me…”

Whining. That’s what she was best at. His face creased as he inhaled to give her his view of the facts, when a tiny damselfly, barely longer than his finger, decided to flutter between the two arguers. As he inhaled, though, the breeze that the insect had been peacefully soaring on shifted and it found itself sucked in towards him, up, to his nose. At the last moment he shut his mouth tight – the wings of the delicate damselfly caught in his nostrils and he immediately sneezed: a powerful, explosive sneeze that no one and nothing was safe from.

When the dust and leaves and colours and paint had settled and the damselfly, albeit a bit ruffled, was back in flight and out of sight, she looked at the budding white flower and sighed a short sigh.

“Well” she said “that’s taken care of then.”

He looked over, saw it, then caught her eye.


And they both smiled.


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