|blush rose petals|
At the grocery store after work, halfway home, I spotted a lone bunch of blush-pink roses. They looked a little sepia around the edges, which was a bad sign, but I bought them anyway—they were my favorite shade and only five dollars. It was a justified splurge.
Two MAX trains were broken down on the way into the city, perhaps because of the heat, so I got off near the riverfront and walked the rest of the way home, carrying two bags of groceries and trailing a few rose petals behind like breadcrumbs. I kept marching and sweating and when home, I set the flowers down on the kitchen counter, filled a vase with cool water, and snipped off the bottoms of all the stems on the diagonal. But when I picked up the first stem, it was missing all its petals, and the same with the next, and the next. Only three of the rosebuds were still attached to their stem. The rest of the petals—the ones that hadn't found themselves sizzling on the sidewalk—were lying in clumps on their plastic wrapper.
I could have cursed. I could have laughed. I could have cried. It was hot. I was tired and hungry. But instead I gathered up all the petals in both hands and carried them to my bed, strewing the sheets with pretty petals. Why not? So tonight I will sleep naked in a bed of roses.
|rose petals on sheets|
(These are the things one can do when living alone, and the reason such people often grow eccentric.)