Why Not Roses
She doesn't like roses.
Some believe it's because they're a conventional flower and conventional is something she has never been. Others reason it's because they have a hint of fragility. Still others presume it's because they're a symbol of romance and she's too pragmatic to believe in the frovility of it.
But he knows the truth.
He knows it's because she met him in a rose garden. Knows it's because the fragrant petals take her back.
He likes to think that when her mind brings her back there that she doesn't compare them with regret. H
e can accept the occasional wistfulness of what if.
He has, on occasion, thought of another in that way, himself.
So, he doesn't send her roses.
Never has.
Never will.
They, he believes, were their flower.
So, instead, he sends her wildflowers because they're not conventional. Because they're surviors. Because they're just romantic enough to make her smile.
And once a year, when the roses come with a note, he pretends not to notice.
Pretends not to see the mixture of hurt and wistfulness on her face as she crumples the note and throws the bouguett into the trash, the perfume of the flowers over powering the room as she insists that she hates roses to whomever is in listening range. Knowing that it's really what they represent that she hates.
Knowing as well that it will be the year that they don't come that will be worse, because then the final break will come.
That perhaps, then, she will truly hate roses.
Because then they will represent the death of a dream.
The death of a friendship.
The death, of the past.