He never sends me flowers, at least, that’s what I thought, but here I am taking delivery of the most enormous, beautifully arranged, hand-tied bouquet.
I thank the delivery girl and close the door…… wondering what on earth to do. I had decided to end it, I just can’t fight the feeling anymore, the feeling that something is wrong, that I am being fooled. The abruptly ended phone calls, the short, impersonal emails, he doesn’t seem to want to spend time on me anymore.
I bury my face in the flowers and walk towards the kitchen, drinking in the glorious scent of the white roses, tulips and lilies. The whole bouquet is white and my heart melts a little…….. he has remembered I love white flowers. I lay them on the kitchen table and reach up into the tall cupboards, searching for my favourite crystal vase and I think of the last few days.
He is always so busy, or so he says. Never time to chat, forever flying off somewhere, leaving me alone. I fill the vase with water and untie the lilac ribbon that secures the blooms and spread their beauty out across the table top. Tucked inside the fragrant array is a little envelope, lilac coloured, just like the ribbon…… he’s remembered I love that colour too !! My heart melts a little more as I read the card inside,
“ You know there is no-one else but you. I love you “
Oh, maybe I am wrong, we have both been so tired lately. We need to get away, recharge our batteries, go somewhere where there is just the two of us.
I think about last night, I hardly spoke to him, nor him to me. His reason was he was busy, but mine was that I could not speak for fear of voicing my thoughts……… the thoughts that had haunted me for weeks……. the certainty that there was ‘someone else’. But I was wrong ! Surely this unexpected gesture proves that ?
I begin to arrange the flowers in the crystal vase, smiling at their beauty, longing for him to phone so I can tell him everything is fine; that I’m sorry; that it’s all going to be the way it was before I had these strange imaginings. The flowers are looking lovely in the sparkling vase, the heady scent of the lilies fills the air, my heart sings.
“ I was wrong !”
I pick up the last rose, to place it in the centre of the arrangement and I feel the sharp prick of a thorn, one barbed spike on an otherwise smooth stem, a little imperfection hidden deceptively amongst the other flowers. I look down at my finger as the bright red blood begins to flow and drip onto the pure white of the rose and as the vivid stain spreads across the petal my heart goes cold and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am right.