A beautiful woman should never be without a flower.

    Sitting alone, in his booth, the man could still remember such little things about her.  The way that she smelled, damp and fresh from the shower.  The small curves of her feet as they strode, barefoot, through the park.  The soft silk of her skin as they caressed one another in the darkness.  These perceptions flooded his being as he made the first crease in the simple square of blue paper.

    I suppose that, after a time, I began to equate flowers with love.

    The light was dim, in that corner booth, as he continued to manipulate the sheet into perfect, precise creases, folds of astounding delicacy.  As he did so, he began to remember snatches of their conversations.  How everything that she said seemed to make perfect sense to him.  How he could listen to her ramble, for hours, on what would seem to be the smallest of things, the least important of topics.  For a short time, she was there with him, and he was not quite as alone.

    What could be more beautiful than taking a simple square of paper and creating from it, love?

    Slowly, the paper began to take form, blossoming into a lovely, petaled flower, nearly perfect.  With careful, trembling fingers, he deftly completes the final folds, bending the reaching petals into a curved mockery of organic life, examining the object from all angles and taking note of the slight imperfections that always seem to remain, no matter how patient, no matter how careful he is.

    I miss you.

    The man sets the finished flower, finally, across the booth from him, decorating the empty seat.  It is imperfect, but he is getting better.  And he has all the time in the world.