Roses. It was always roses. Roses on the porch. Roses on the counter. Roses on the bed. Red, deep burgundy, petals strewn about.
Every Valentine's Day he did the same thing. They had never worked, no matter how hard he tried. Roses became the symbol of his failure.
Today seemed different. Maybe because she was older. Maybe because today there was only one, shot through from the palest pink to the deepest red. Magic. Maybe because he was there, holding it silently.
Whatever the reason, it didn't matter.
Lydia stepped foward and accepted Beetlejuice's rose.
Roses.
Today, they meant kisses.