She touches the leaf with her little finger, and the fearsome green mouth closes. If the fingertip was an insect, it would have been doomed. We are up on a bridge in the greenhouse, a gallery lined with carnivorous plants. The botanical garden, what place could be more romantic? Here ancient trees stand along the canals, and narrow paths lead through a manmade jungle. Pools and streams lay hidden in the little forest, and from the murky water of their aquariums, exotic fish stare at the visitors.
Clouds escape from large steel pipes and give the greenhouses their moist atmosphere. The strangest creatures reach for the light. Enormous leafs float upon pools like boats. In this alien world plants eat animals.

She points at one of the bulbs the vegetable monsters uses to catch flies.
" It'd be nice to take a picture of."
I take my cellphone from my pocket and make a photograph. Then I look at her, and click again. The beauty of the plant is certainly great, but not as great as hers.
The day passes in the hortus, and we talk about tenthousand things, but mainly plants and flowers. I have not seen one that could compete with her though, yet I do not mention it.
Often she goes ahead, the adventurer. After all, she is the tombraider, the explorer. Tomboyish, yet feminine...
We explore every path, see every tree, and then leave this oasis for the business of the town. We walk past the medieval houses, the canals and the numerous museums.
The National Museum of Antiqueties is her favorite, for she is sort of an archeologist after all. We walk on, for I want to show her the very heart of the place, the old citadel.
We enter the alley that leads toward the building, and we can see the ancient walls upon the hill. The gate seems closed however.
Then a woman adresses us in English.
" The entrance is around the corner."
We laugh and thank her in Dutch. We are tourists, but not from abroad.
The view from the walls is splendid, and I look at her, as she enjoys the view. Her curly locks wave in the wind, worthy of another nice picture.

At last it's time. We walk back to the station, towards her train. All this time I haven't told her, haven't said what I intended to say. The last chance approaches, and I am confident that I can gather the courage to kiss her on the cheek before she leaves.
The train comes sooner than I anticipated and I walk with her to the doors. Now... But she jumps in and waves, out of my reach...

I walk to my own train and get in, wondering. Did she touch my hand intentionally when I closed the door of the greenhouse? Would she perhaps be wondering why I haven't kissed her too? Or is she just a friend, like all the other girls I know? Kissing on the first date was out of the question, but then came the second, and the third, and the tenth...

I scroll through the pictures on my phone, only to find out I didn't save them...