A woman sits alone on a park bench, legs propped up, book sprawled across her lap, drinking in the sunlight of a lazy afternoon. A man reaking of arrogance, strides across an open field, eyes focused on the golden legs that drew his attention away from his daily run.
“So,” he said, laying on the charm like a thick molasses, “what is your favorite flower, darling? A Rose? A Lily? An Orchid?”
“A dandelion,” she replied simply, not bothering to look up from her book.
“A weed?” he spat, taken aback by her lack-luster response.