#palma violets

Standing back as the last person barely squeezed themselves inside the compartment. The next one would arrive in a few minutes but for some that was already too late. Turning up the volume of the music running through cables to her head, she got out the one device she wanted to look at less than usually. Searching for his contact to inform him of their change of plans.

'Gonna take the next one. We wouldn't be able to breath if we stick to the plan.'

Anxiously waiting for a response, her eyes flickering up every few seconds to see the seconds ticking by for him to read her message and not get into the wrong tube. It had to be at his stop now, the one she wouldn't meet him at.

The two pegs turning blue, his answer loading to get to her.

'Good thing I'm running late then.'

Typical.

Shaking her head almost invisibly, she put it back. Reading the advertisements, waiting for the departure so her day could begin feeling good. Some wannabe C-list celebrity who marketed a product like it was their own. Another McDonald's ad that made her want to throw up. Little, more earnest posters focusing on gigs in the next weeks or plays produced by uni students. A girl that barely reached her knee stared at her from the other side of the station. Holding on to her mother's hand like she had no other choice. Their train coming earlier, leaving her to her own devices for the remaining two minutes she had to wait for her compartment.

It was fierce when it finally appeared. Two minutes late. More people now standing next to her. Less than for the one before but still enough to make her step forward earlier than it had time to stop.

Wandering through the rows on the lookout for a seat she caught sight of while it drove by. Settling by the window, feet propped up on the heater that did less to nothing to keep the people warm in the February cold. Fingers tapping in the same rhythm as the music against her kneecap. Watching the underground world pass her by like it did daily.

Two stations until he'd meet her.

'I'm in the first one. Further to the front, by a window.'

She wrote, turning off the screen again without waiting for an answer this time.

People walked past her, they looked at the empty seat but inevitably changed their minds. Walking further into the masses and down the end.

His stop was brighter than hers. No light-bulb was broken, the sun came in from it not being too far under from the street. With his hand in his pocket he stood there, orange paper around the pink bouquet. Small but noticeable. He always seemed to have that affect on her. That easy target in a crowd of blacked out faces. The spotlight seemed to be right on him at all times.

Watching him step inside and look around before finding her, she took the music out of her head. Letting him take over the melody in her consciousness—his voice and the way he said her name sounding like a symphony conducted for a choir.

"Hey," he said, smiling as he sat next to her. Leaning his head back, angling it just right for her to watch him and kiss him without having to move too far. "Missed you."

"You're saying that like I didn't see you yesterday after the gig."

"Still missed you." Chilli shrugged, catching sight of her eyes slipping down to the flowers in his hands. "On my way here I was walking past the flower shop with that old lady you like so much. And since you told me we'd take the later one I had time to go back." Holding them up for her to take and inspect. "They reminded me of your eyes."

"I don't have pink eyes though," she laughed, furrowing her eyebrows in a teasing demeanor.

Huffing out a laugh, shaking his head, he couldn't believe her. "They're still beautiful."

"They are," she agreed. Holding them up to her nose to take in the scent that was slightly poisoned with the lingering anecdotes of oil and pollution. "Thank you."