I can’t get that song out of my head. You know the one. If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. There are flowers along the path, and I consider picking one, like I can make this go my way if I just follow all the rules. Except the rules are subtle, half-hidden riddles, and part of the game is trying to figure them out. Flowers in your hair. I can’t even remember the rest. But here I am, walking up the overgrown path towards Coit Tower. To my left I can see the harbour through the breaks in the trees; my right is nothing but hills, but I know beyond them is China Town and North Beach, neighbourhoods I wandered through like sight seeing could still be fun. Like I knew I wasn’t just putting off the inevitable.
I run my fingers across my stomach, and in a moment of trembling panic I reach sideways and grab the head of a flower, crushing the stem, pinching it between my nails until it falls into my waiting hand. It’s a big pink thing, really too big for my hair, but I tie a quick braid and weave the flower in anyway. Today I need all the luck I can get.
I walk up the stairs slowly, conscious of every extra breath I have to take, every moment of tension in my muscles. The tower grows to life in front of me, stretching cold and white against an empty sky. I pull the flower out of my hair and rip its petals off one by one as I reach the road. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. It’s a cheating game with a five-petal flower, and I spread my fingers across my stomach as I drop the last one.
I can see the flash of his green coat against the white marble stairs. He’s sitting waiting for me, has probably been waiting for an hour. Maybe the fact he didn’t leave is a good sign. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all. I look around in panic for another flower, but the trees and bushes here are just leafy green, and I have to walk towards him unarmoured. If you’re going to San Francisco… I press my fingers against my stomach. Maybe I’ll name her Lily, or Rose, and I’ll always have a flower…
I steel myself and walk forwards.
Photograph by: Wren Handman