Sleepy under the spell of chamomile, Dahlia couldn't help the dreamy grin that kept finding its way to the surface. That's what she would blame the embarassing smirk on. It happened over and over again as the plastic bench seating beneath her rumbled from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Her eyes would drift from the stare through the passengers across from her back to the bouquet in her hands and the corners of her mouth would float upwards of their own accord.

It was the feeling she had been fighting for the better part of two weeks. The uncomfortable bubble of hope that lodged itself in the lower part of her rib cage. The thing she fought with self-deprecating humor and reminders of the fact he was probably just kind. Harsh reality checks. Self-administered innoculation against disappointment.

Isn't it stressful to wait for the bad things that you expect?

Her teeth raked over her lower lip, rough from the dry cold late fall had brought. The old habits that were hard to break. The raw spot at the bottom, left corner of her left thumb nail where she absent-mindedly picked with her index finger. The metallic tang that came now where her teeth had hooked too hard on the inside of her lower-lip. The rapid fire filling of the two sides of the scale in her mind. One side weighted with the signs her burgeoning crush was reciprocated; the other collecting evidence to the contrary--a thumb on the scale in favor of the latter, if only for the sake of self-preservation.

He was kind to her, but kindness was his nature. Kindness alone was an indicator of nothing. Who was she that mere kindness was enough to set her to this type of wondering? Don't be nice to me if you don't want to be my boyfriend. Being nice to me is the male equivalent of wearing a short skirt--if you're kind to me, you're asking for it. She snickered at the remembered conversation over gchat, a former co-worker explaining it all so perfectly.

There had been that poem. Reading through it had made her face burn and her stomach flutter. It had been relevant to the conversation at hand, though. There were the flowers--good for pressing, he had asked the florist. Thoughtful. Also his nature. For every point a counterpoint. Dahlia let loose with an exasperated sigh, twisting sidewise so she could hook her elbow over the seatback and support her chin with her forearm while she watched the blackness racing by the window.

Perfect Day^♬
Lou Reed

Here Comes The Sun^♬
Nina Simone

Don't Wait^♬
Mapei

Hard Time^♬
Seinabo Sey

Don't Make Me A Target^♬
Spoon

Whipping Post^♬
The Allman Brothers Band

La Grange^♬
ZZ Top

Pride and Joy^♬
Stevie Ray Vaughan

Who Do You Love?^♬
Bo Diddley

Love Song^♬
Jean Grae

Definition^♬
Blackstar

The Light^♬
Common

You Got Me^♬
The Roots f/ Jill Scott

A Long Walk^♬
Jill Scott