One of dozens of unpublished drabbles clogging up my hard drive that will slowly stumble their way into the blinding light of day...
Indico Donum
The rose is a troubling arrival.
Perched on her desk, the intruder in a red gown has thrown its petals wide like a plea for an embrace. Shunning modesty as a matter of principle, it looks overconfident. It's not troubled by the lack of welcome, gives no consideration to how short its lifespan could be. It is, in fact, reminiscent of him; unflinching certainty with a fragile interior.
Not that he'd appreciate being compared to a flower.
There are case files crowding the precious space, manila supplying a backdrop for the fragrant squatter. The shade is rather obnoxious, a showy sensuality that has become synonymous with romance for reasons that escape her. A trash can is within reach and a quick sweep of an arm could send the thin vase to a crashing demise. But the scent will linger, hover on the edge of her notice. A legacy impossible to ignore.
How very much like the man.
It is an affront, a professional woman being forced to accept an inappropriate item. There is nothing within her that screams for such public gifts. That no one mentions it is disconcerting, as though it's a ghost of nature only she can see. Passersby give it no glance and she considers how the glass projectile might splinter were she to launch it. Someone should be wearing the damned thing.
That was a mistake.
Because instead of focusing on the disfigured victim with a disturbing lack of eyes, the errant mind ships her an image of him in a white tuxedo, a cut rose driven through a buttonhole. Debonair, an old word that he inhabits as his hand extends. She is there to claim it, clinging dress enticingly short. For him. And a flower in her preferred color is tucked behind her ear.
A head slap slaughters the daydream.
The crime is solved quicker than the rose mystery. The question isn't the purchaser but the occasion. A plea for notice is unnecessary. His proximity is always keenly noted. Perhaps it's an apology for some offense no longer remembered. But more likely, it's the seeking of a reaction. And the rate at which her disloyal eyes continually cut to the bud only insures he's achieving that.
The aroma is kissing her skin.
He must think he's gaining something and perhaps it's a fair assessment. She's losing both words and composure the longer the invasive object remains. But she wasn't trained to give the opponent satisfaction. Thus, when finally asked, she attributes it to someone who doesn't know that she prefers white roses. It's a lie, but she enjoys the subtle hints of reaction he's fighting to stifle.
And she waits.
Returning from a hurried lunch, she finds that the blood-toned bud has been replaced. Only her ruse fails because the flower now determined to spend the rest of the day bothering her is clothed in vibrant yellow.
Her favorite.
And she understands the intended message. Symbolism, in a manner men like him avoid. He's ready for something romantic (red) but is willing to take the old-fashioned route in order to become her preference (yellow). And while the red one had thorns, an acknowledgment of the past, the yellow rose has none. Doubt tells her that she's reading too much into this, but the smolder in his eyes does not agree with that appraisal. With purposed care, she carries the vase home.
He's not far behind.
Title : Public Gifts.