It had been a long day; children-filled and noisy. There was nothing new about this and, as usual, Jenny was past wilting and the boys nearly in bed when John arrived home from work, late again. However, unlike usual, half-hidden behind his back was a bouquet of yellow roses, bursting with scent and sunshine.

[More:]

"For you, my darling," he said, wrapping his arms round her like a warm velvety petal. She reached up for a kiss but he was pulled away by their children clamouring for a bedtime story.

In the kitchen, Jenny slit open the roses' plastic wrapper and stroked the half-closed baby skin petals across her cheek. They felt as soft as John's lips on her neck; those kisses that made her melt with sunshine. She was glad he'd chosen yellow, not the clichéd red. She wondered what had prompted his choice though. They were like the ones she'd chosen for her bridal bouquet, but she wouldn't have thought he'd remember that. Jenny frowned.

Nipping the bottom of the stalks with a knife, she watched sap ooze from the open wounds onto her hands. She felt, not saw, the liquid stain her fingers with memories she had tried, was constantly trying, to forget.

Jenny tucked the buds into a vase one by one, counting them slowly as she did so: one daughter, two sons together, three, four, five years of bliss, six, seven diamonds in the eternity ring he'd given her with a promise that it wouldn’t happen again, eight, nine years of marriage, ten, eleven unexplained receipts, twelve – the supposedly perfect romantic number. She ran her fingers up and down that last straight stem. It was silky smooth except for the thorn of doubt deep inside her asking why yellow roses, bursting with scent and fading petals?

20 November, 2007

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