I got the idea for this story on Wednesday, but I got COVID earlier in the week, so this is the first I’ve had the strength to write it down. You could chalk this up to my fevered brain, although I write this kind of thing all the time, so I guess that’s no excuse.
The knock was soft, like the caress of leaves on stone. I opened the door to find a single red rose, standing upright.
From Jamie and selfdeliveryflowers.com, the card read.
The rose skittered inside on tiny rootlets, petals bent low, questing. I found it in the kitchen, dipping its stem into a soaking spaghetti pot. I grabbed a vase and pushed the flower inside with tongs.
Thanks for the flower, I texted Jamie, happy that revulsion wasn’t conveyed by mere text.
He responded immediately. Flower? Nah, I got you a dozen, babe. The other eleven will be there any moment.