That night when Ruth got home there were no lit candles, no roses and no notes. She felt a bitter disappointment.
But she thought back to the moment in the doorway.
The intensity of him, the power of him, the nearness of him.
And she flushed once more.
She never bothered with the kettle but reached straight for a large glass of wine and then sat down.
The tv was turned on and then turned off.
Her book was picked up and then put down.
The iron was pulled out and then put back.
She could not concentrate, she could not settle.
She decided a hot bath and an early night might be a better idea.
Stretched out in the bath with the radio on and the glass of wine still in her hand, she expected to relax, but her thoughts were jumbled, hurried, fleeting, and most of all, full of him.
The only thoughts that weren't full of him revolved around her body, as she lay there wondering if she was as attractive as he would expect. If she was enough for him and then she realised that they were still merely thoughts about him.
She wrapped herself in a towel, threw her clothes into the basket and opened the bedroom door, searching for the light, wondering if the bath salts she had used were a new batch, as she seemed to smell unusually different.
That was when she realised it had nothing to do with the bath salts.
Her bedroom was full of flowers.