Paul looked down at the flower in his hand. He sat for a while on the bench, his shoulders hunched gainst the cold. A red rose, a single stem. She always insisted. It had been after some stupid romantic film, so like clockwork, every anniversary and Valentine's Day, he bought her a single red rose. She liked romance did Mary. The simple gesture that created a picture of the perfect couple. Got really 'goey' at Valentines' - all hearts and flowers. At least it hadn't cost too much. One red rose was cheaper than a dozen. A Valentine card once a year, a box of chocolates every so often. Mary liked Milk Tray.

He brought the rose up to his nose and sniffed. There was no perfume. It was as if all the life in the flower had gone into producing that vivid red colour. He imagined what Mary's reaction would be if he gave her the flower and grimaced. She had never reacted to him only the flower, she certainly wouldn't react now. He remembered watching her fingers last Valentine Day, gently tracing the shape of the flower, until she inevitably pricked her finger on one of the thorns. The blood slowly trickled down until she placed her finger in her mouth sucking at the wound. Then she had walked off and put the rose in the bud vase on the mantle. It had stayed there until its petals wilted and died.

He felt a drop of rain on his face and breathed in the fresh air. He liked the feel of the rain. Sometimes he would walk down the street alone letting the rain soak onto his skin. It was peaceful, comforting, made him feel connected. Slowly he stood up and looked towards the gate. A woman stood waiting patiently. He knew she wanted to give him some space. As she noticed his gaze, she smiled back, tentatively. It was time to go. He placed the rose upon the ground in front of the headstone at his feet. He stood silent for a moment then turned away and walked towards the woman at the gate, in her arms she held a bunch of orchids.

Paul had always hated roses!

© Copyright L J Winson 1997