Roses in Hanoi

Hanoi woke that morning to a tentative sun. Her streets prised open an eye to receive the first pencils of light.

He was out. Out walking. As he did. The empty streets feeding his soul. The puddles in the pot holes a reminder of a night passed, a storm over. The still air promised happiness to come.

The street sellers drew back the curtains on the morning. Their pointed hats, their baskets, their fresh produce - each silently yawned hello to the new day.

The flower seller's flowers were wet and dripping. Morning was an immunity from the heat.

His pacing had taken him down streets of thought, around corners of contemplation, and down alleys of prayer. The complicated, messy Hanoi streets fanned into a network of arteries. Rich veins of life that his heart connected to.

Awakening occurred. Imperceptibly at first. Then, like the day that stretched in bed, consciously.

His mind left his body; his body paced briskly. Mind and body later converged at the French bakery. Croissants. Coffee. For him. And for the queen. An act of royalty.

Armed with the flaky, almond croissant and the take-away cup of creamy coffee, he set about the return.

The flower seller. Ensconced on the corner. Her corner. She ruled the corner in the early morning. It was hers in all but title. He had passed her setting up. Now upon the return he approached her differently.

A flash of money. A barter, unspoken. Hanoi is more beautiful without English. A transaction. A trade. A prize. A rose.

She too was waking when he returned. Under the hotel sheets. Under the charm of the city. Stretching. Wondering. Wondering about the wanderer. And then the creak and click of the door. The smell of coffee. The smell of almond croissant. The smell of a rose. The smell of a smile on his face.

Unspoken. With his hands full. A gentle kiss on her cheek. A flash in his eye. Hanoi is more beautiful without English.