A Splash of Orange

Darla had never been considered daring. She was 5 ft. 1, had long brown hair, grey eyes and a very small mouth. She lived in a small apartment, worked in a small restaurant, received a small paycheck and dreamed small dreams. She had worked in Benny’s Diner for 6 years and never been promoted to “Head Waitress” though she’d always longed for it. Her most memorable time with a boy was when, in high school, Thomas Stratbottom had taken her out for coffee at the “Yellow Chicken Café”. Her favorite color was brown. Needless to say she was not the most noticeable person in a crowd and was often stepped on, sat on and bumped into.
The first time Darla had seen it, she had been breathlessly running to work because her morning bus had been terribly late. She’d just banged into a man and was apologizing profusely when it caught her eye. She’d stopped and stared, suddenly oblivious to time and the fear of her boss’s quick temper. It was not supposed to be there and yet…it was. Then she’d shaken herself out of her trance, apologized once more to the man and made a mad dash for the door of the restaurant she worked in. After that it had been pushed from Darla’s mind by a flood of work. It was only late on a Saturday morning that she’d remembered it. Donning her thick brown coat and arming herself with a mug of hot coffee, she strolled downtown to see if it was still there. And it was. Stunned she bent down for a closer look.
The flower was a vivid and daring orange that fascinated the eye and stood out glaringly against the towering grey city that surrounded it. Tentatively she brushed the silky petals with her finger to reassure herself of its reality. How it had grown between the slabs of cement she could not think. How it had survived the passing of thousands of feet was even harder to explain. It was the sole plant on the block. 
She stood as thoughts cascaded through her mind. It was a very beautiful flower, she decided. It stood proudly, surrounded by dead concrete and haunted by scuffed shoe souls. When she looked at the flower, a feeling that had been lost for so long it burned returned to her heart. Her breath quickened and she lifted her head.
Individuality. Her grey eyes glowed with desire for it. Plans leapt into her head. First she would quit her job. Benny’s diner was no place for her! Then she would go to that fashionable store a block down and buy the red coat with the purple sash and a few pairs of stilettos. She’d cut her hair short and curl it and perhaps even streak it with blonde! Then she’d sign up for dance lessons with that dashing Italian man. And then-
A large bustling woman in a red coat with a purple sash bowled into her. “You pathetic little freak!” she screeched, “Move! I need to go! I’m late for my dance lessons with Armando Fisoni.” She shoved Darla bodily out of the way, smoothed her cropped curly hair and stalked off, her stilettos clicking on the sidewalk. Darla gazed after her, mouth open. Then she turned, yanked the orange flower from the cement and flung it away. With a sigh of relief she opened the door to Benny’s diner and walked in