Red

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Red roses, a dozen of them. They sat on the table and she stared at them as if waiting for something to happen. Surely they would not speak, did not know her heart. He must have paid a fortune, she thought. And yet, and yet . . .

How could she tell him she did not love him, did not yearn for him at night. That she did not dream of his touch when he wasn't there, or of a life lived with him at her side. 

She grabbed the roses and brought them into her kitchen, sat them on the counter next to the chicken pieces thawing. She left the room, returned, stared at the beautiful red roses but still they did not speak to her. 

The vase would visit her bedroom and salon before returning to the dining room where she had first placed them in the center of the old cherrywood table. And as if waiting for something to change in her heart she continued to stare at the long-stemmed beauties.

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