Originally written for a last author standing community. Answers the prompt "Running out of time."
The flowers are already dead. Putting them in water might help to buy a few more days where they'll look bright and healthy and alive, but it doesn't change the fact that they're dead. They've expired. These daisies are pushing up daisies. Nothing Carlton could possibly do can save them at this point. He sits at a small, expensive table in a small, expensive restaurant and fingers the edge of an orange petal, noting the way it's already starting to turn to brown at its pointed tip. It's a perfect bloom-so effortlessly beautiful.
So easily destroyed.
The pen is heavy in his hand, gravity drawing the weighted tip down toward thick, official paper. This was never supposed to happen. His marriage was never supposed to have an expiration date, but there it is printed in stark black and white. Maybe he could convince Victoria that it's not over, that they still belong together, but what good would that do? He could select the most beautiful vase and fill it with imported water and dote and pamper and coddle, but nothing will stop the once vibrant colors from fading and the edges from curling under from decay now that the roots have been cut off.
He takes a sip of chilled water, slowly exhales a shaky breath, and, with a surprisingly steady hand, signs the papers.
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