They were pretty for sure, a deep blue that reminds him of rollicking oceans and deep summer skies.
With such strong memory ties as that, how could he not be drawn to them.
He reaches out with an unsure hand and grasps the stalks of the flowers, anxious to have them displayed on his dining room table at home.
As his hand slowly clasps into a fist, he winces. His fingers spring open and he pulls his hand back anxiously.
His fingers tips and palms are peppered with small, white spikes, thorns from the stalk of the flower.
The itching begins immediately, an obnoxious scratching that just doesn't want to stop.
He rubs at them first, trying to brush them free, but the vigorous action only makes things worse.
Defeated, he realizes he will have to return home to get his tweezers. It had seemed like this bundle of blue would be a great addition to his table, but before he could complete that mission, he had some tending to do with his hand.
As he slowly sets off home, he realizes that like all things beautiful, this one too left a sting.
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