A rose. A single crimson bloom. A blood-red velvety collection of petals. It is amazing how one small, fragile flower can capture so many emotions: passion, hate, lust, anger, fear, devotion, and- dare I say it? - love. A rose can mean anything, really. Perhaps it is merely a friendly gesture, or congratulatory gift. Could it be a promise or a sign? I suppose it would all matter on the giver of the rose, and their relation to the intended.
As the intended, I do not understand the meaning of this particular rose. It is different from the others before, that I am sure of. This rose does not seem to say, "Christine, congratulations on another divine performance-you have truly made your Angel proud tonight." No, this rose is more intense. I can feel that it stands for more than praise. I can feel the tension through the plush petals and it burns my fingertips as it blows my mind. I can feel his very presence from inside the stem; feel his stare from the very core of the flower. But what could this rose mean?
I could very well march down to his home and demand an answer. Or I couldn't. It is just easier to blame him for confusing me, than to admit the real reason I am repeatedly stroking these soft petals of intensity. Erik loves me. And the reason for the perfect teardrop that now perfectly adorns a smooth, soft petal? I love him too.