Every year it was the same.
A white delivery truck pulled up in front of the house, and a man with faded jeans and a black tee shirt ambled toward the door. As the doorbell sounded, she sighed.
Another year gone by. Her mother was right; time certainly did pass by faster as one got older.
She accepted the red rose without comment, signed the form, and watched the truck pull from the curb. Once the truck was out of sight, she closed the front door. After sitting in her favorite chair by the fire, she pulled the flower up to her face and inhaled the sweet fragrance.
As quickly as lightning flashes in a summer storm, she was transported back.
Like a flipbook, memories raced across her brain. The rose scent. His hand on the small of her back. His dark eyes when they danced. Her small hands trembling in his larger ones.
The way his mouth felt on her neck, bringing her to life. And again, the smell of a red rose left on her bed. Later, as they rose and fell and melted together, the rose lay on the table beside his bed.his eyes never left hers, and she soared.
And even later still, when they saw good times and bad times, always a simple red rose was his gift to her.
The day he sent her away, she'd never seen his eyes so black. And when she fought back and punched and hit him with all the strength she had left, he pushed her away with a smirk. "Enough, Miss Granger," he'd snarled, back to formalities and niceties they'd disregarded after seeing each other naked.
His good-bye: a rose.
And every year since, she'd got a red rose on June 15th.
A white delivery truck pulled up in front of the house, and a man with faded jeans and a black tee shirt ambled toward the door. As the doorbell sounded, she sighed.
Another year gone by. Her mother was right; time certainly did pass by faster as one got older.
She accepted the red rose without comment, signed the form, and watched the truck pull from the curb. Once the truck was out of sight, she closed the front door. After sitting in her favorite chair by the fire, she pulled the flower up to her face and inhaled the sweet fragrance.
As quickly as lightning flashes in a summer storm, she was transported back.
Like a flipbook, memories raced across her brain. The rose scent. His hand on the small of her back. His dark eyes when they danced. Her small hands trembling in his larger ones.
The way his mouth felt on her neck, bringing her to life. And again, the smell of a red rose left on her bed. Later, as they rose and fell and melted together, the rose lay on the table beside his bed.his eyes never left hers, and she soared.
And even later still, when they saw good times and bad times, always a simple red rose was his gift to her.
The day he sent her away, she'd never seen his eyes so black. And when she fought back and punched and hit him with all the strength she had left, he pushed her away with a smirk. "Enough, Miss Granger," he'd snarled, back to formalities and niceties they'd disregarded after seeing each other naked.
His good-bye: a rose.
And every year since, she'd got a red rose on June 15th.