The palest hues of pink, shaken free, are scattered by the wind and fall—springtime in England when cool blue sky is dotted with whipped-cream white clouds, and when the golden sun shines, all the world is warm. Lacey curls up on the back seat of the vintage MG, bouquet abandoned, tears shocked dry, listening to murmurs from her father as he talks to guests outside. Dismayed, people move quickly away.
Soft pink tears of cherry blossom petals spatter the back windscreen until blown briskly away, unwanted, onto the verge. She was on time, but he never turned up at all.