He'd gone to the florist's that afternoon. It took him hours to find the right ones, but eventually, as the golden rays of sunshine light turned gray with night, he found them: A bouquet of beautiful, soft pink roses.
He bought them immediately.
"Are ye sure, mate?" The florist inquired as he wrapped the flowers. "Most girls want the nice big red ones. These here are a little old."
He smiled. "Mine isn't most girls." He replied. Thank God.
The roses were in his hand as he walked down the street, whistling, anticipating the night ahead. Of course, she'd have to accept him first, but a man can hope. He'd planned it all for her; the date he knew she'd always wanted. He'd seen the magazines poking out of her bag at work. He looked at the roses again and smiled. They were perfect.
Suddenly, his phone rang. He listened for a moment, then stopped and took off at a run, the roses still grasped tightly in his hand.
He got there fast, but not fast enough. The crash had backed up traffic everywhere. The roses were still in his hand.
He didn't drop them when he saw the wreckage; the twisted metal that used to be transport. He didn't drop them when he saw the smoke. He didn't drop them as the wreck burst into flames. He never loosened his grip, even when he saw the blood.
The funeral was a solemn affair, with a few close friends standing about weeping, dressed in black. He'd gone, but he never cried. Not until the casket was lowered into the ground and the dirt poured over its lid. He just held on to the roses.
He waited until everyone had left, then stepped forward to pay his respects. He held the roses in his hands still as he wept, his shoulders shaking as the tears ran down his cheeks. Then, slowly, slowly he knelt and placed the bouquet gently against the gravestone.
"Good-bye, Molly Hooper. I love you."
END