The pink vases oddly sat empty; all the other colors had flowers in them; the brown towel hung from the foot of the bed.

She rolled over, stretched and looked around the room. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes; she wondered slightly why, but was used to Robbie and his crazy ideals.

Apparently, they didn’t have the correct flower he had in mind for the pink vases as she pushed back the covers and inhaled the sent of gardenia and honeysuckle.

I get out of bed and look down at 55th street below me; usually I see the top of some kids head that loiters by the old newspaper machine. I see it as usual, and notice he has a new coat. Bit bright, well neon graffiti to be exact, and briefly wonder if some animal rights activist is paying him to stand there today.