Red Rose
It will be a dark red rose. He will pick it out and twirl it in his fingers.
He will send it tied to a card that has only one word on it, written in his pointed, untidy scrawl. "Desire."
The next day the card will be back.
"Lust." It will say in her graceful loops on the other side. "But I'll keep the rose."
He will think of her, pretend that she is smiling at the flower, setting in a vase and watching its perfect bloom wither.
And die.
He will be right.
But one day, even as the petals are blackening at the edges, she will touch the soft, silk petals and pretend it's someone's soft, silk face. Seized by a sudden affection, she will swoop in to press her lips to the very center of its scarlet, pouting mouth.
He will feel nothing.
(the note is a round crumpled ball at the bottom of the wastebasket by his bed)