She walked in the door, threw her keys and phone on the side table and landed on the couch. She put her feet up, let her head fall back and closed her eyes. The smell from the kitchen was fantastic and the cool air blew in from the window.
He walked over and rested his hands on her shoulders from behind. They instinctually moved forward just enough. He leant close and kissed her on her right temple. His whiskers were the perfect mix of soft and coarse. His scent was home and was enough to let the rest of her body relax.
“He left you another one.” he said and a long stem rose landed on the coffee table in front of her.
“Well you have to admire his persistence.” she said as she leaned forward and picked it up.
She didn’t used to like roses. They were so traditional. So scripted and common. Everyone liked roses just like everyone liked diamonds. How dull.
Leaning back again she twirled it in her fingers and stared at it. She smiled remembering the last time she was given a single red rose, well the last time before the run of these ones. It was highschool. Was she dating someone or not quite yet? How did she even get it? Did it arrive at her house like these ones? She reaches back and searches her memory. Digging past old boxes, dust rising as each is moved beyond. Did her dad find it before she did? Anyway, there was a rose. It was from someone it shouldn’t have been from. Someone who had her in mind and went in search of a single flower and placed it at her threshold. The beauty of it all then was, regardless of the presumed imbalance of power, regardless of the height and broad grin, that she couldn’t have cared less. She wanted neither the rose, neither the man. Today, though, she smirks. How delicious to draw the attention of a soul.
Intriguingly, before this all started, she started wanting roses around her all the time: in her garden growing wild, in vases on her desk, and their colour dripping off her nails. Her writing came easier when they were on the desk staring back. The way their perfect petals fanned open on such sturdy stems for so long. They endured more than most flowers, whether cut or planted. These were not the roses she gazed upon as a child or teen, these were different. She was starting to understand the allure.
Again, she put down the flower.
She pushed herself off the couch and walked over to him. She leaned against his back as he tended to the stove. When you were young flipped on on the player. What an anthem. She could tell, forehead resting between his shoulder blades, that he was smiling.