Rose, I decided, was the perfect name for her. She was the flower, pure beauty, rich Colour, delicate features, a sweet scent. But the rose flower, like my own, had thorns. Thorns that hid some of its beauty, made people wary of touching it, afraid of getting pricked. The thorns were for protection, the flower, from being eaten, my wife, from appearing to vulnerable, to protect herself from ever having to experience the kind of pain that Royce subjected her to again.
The thorns my Rose had inserted all around her distorted her character out of recognition, made her seem cold, heartless, I knew the others found her a right pain in the ass sometimes and, if I'm honest, so did I. I think I'm the only one who truly gets to see the real Rose.
The others may catch glimpses of her now and again, a small smile playing on her lips, a distinctly unbitchy comment, but it was only occasionally, as we were lying in bed wrapped tightly in each other's arms that she let her thorns fall away completely and I saw the vulnerable, sweet, kind woman who I fell in love with and who I would give up everything to protect. I treasured those moments because soon after the thorns, her shield and protection, would resurface.
Shakespeare said, 'that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet' and this was true, but, in this instance, I had to conclude that Rose really was the perfect name for her.