Roses of Love
The first snowflakes arrived early; the shadows of summer were being swept into memories as the earth moved swiftly into winter slumber.
“Flowers are still in bloom. The roses look magnificent with their dusting of white.”
He agrees, yet contemplates on what she had just said, and thinks about their relationship. ‘Odd, why did the vision of roses covered in snow bring about that thought.’ She notices the abrupt change in his eyes; his eyes are her window into his mind.
They have to start making their way back. He feels her hand gently squeeze his, and, looking at her face, he falls madly in love with her smile; how many times can you fall in love, every time she smiles.
Just before they arrive home he remembers about roses. Soon after they had first met, he sent her yellow roses to brighten her day, and would find out the flowers upset her because her girlfriend interpreted the color yellow as goodbye. To ‘correct’ the situation, he became too cautious, reading into everything for signs of her being unsure of him. Finely, she said “these past weeks you have done nothing but please me. I mean, you have bent over backwards to please me, and that’s the problem. I can’t get a grasp on the situation because I’m not sure if this is the real you. Understand?”
“You want me to do something to anger you?”
Hesitancy, “Ummm, okay, yes, do something good angry…a small thing, don’t go overboard.”
He was confused, but more importantly, they now had finally admitted to each other they had a problem communicating their feelings.
A few days later he purchased two dozen red roses and proceeded to ruin the flowers by cutting the petals off and placing them in a Ziploc bag. Attached to the bag was a note: Tonight as you lay in your bed, allow these petals to float down on your fantastic body, so that each petal softly kisses you as my lips hunger to. He had wrapped the gift in gold foil. First thing in the morning he personally delivered the package to her office, asking a secretary to give the package to her when she arrived.
Later, when he had returned from lunch Kris, a coworker, stopped him and said she had a phone message for him, her sassy blue eyes dancing at his expense, “the female caller said quote ‘anger, not arousal’ unquote.” He thanks Kris, and then makes a fast exit stage left.
An hour passes, and while he is leaning back in his chair envisioning more fellow employee laughs, she calls. “Are you angry?”
“Somewhat…but I’ll live, maybe in shame every time I pass Kris, but I’ll live.”
“See, that’s good angry. You did good romance, not good angry.”
He heard her, but his mind was still on the roses. “Hello?” “Sorry.” “You are. By the way, what was it about the roses that would anger me?”
“I have no idea; that’s what I was just thinking about. Seemed like a good idea last night.”
“Good, because I thought I had missed something…Before I hang up, the rose petals felt sooooo nice.”
As they reach their house she shoulder bumps him back to reality, “You were lost in thought there mister.”
That night, as the stars filled the sky, he pens a love poem for her:
Close your eyes and trust me
let my hands guide you through
Please, ask of me
I shall provide
Lay your head upon my chest
sleep with soft gentle dreams
And when you awake,
kiss not just my lips
but your lips as well
(Roses of Love is a work of fiction adapted from Through a Stranger’s Eyes, copyright 2005 and 2012 respectively, and the poem Trust 2005, each by Steven S. Walsky, all rights reserved.)