A Gift of Roses...

I held the roses low on the passenger seat as she walked toward the car. Gripping the base of their paper cone a little too tightly, I presented the flowers to her as she settled in, hoping that my first gift of such crimson beauty would overwhelm her onto a path of forgive and forget. Taking the bouquet from my hand, staring straight into my eyes, she methodically tore each flower from its stem and slowly lobbed them backward in lazy blood-red arcs. Continuing to move her murderous hands in slow motion, eyes still locked, she repeatedly broke the necks of those long-stems and threw the whole hemorrhaging mess behind us, like so much roadkill in the rear view. She never said a word about any of it. 

I just drove.

Late afternoon sun played a shifting game of peek-a-boo through the heavy brown slats that surrounded our dark balcony tables, a stockade between us and the expansive view shimmering up from the waterfront below. 

Ships, large and small, lined up like ducklings behind their mommy, motoring quickly at their turn to thread the needle mouth of the drawbridge as it yawned wide open each half hour. 

She-crab soup and a shared plate of fried Crayfish tails set the stage as the piercing sun now danced off soft blond fuzz on her upper thighs, blocked from going any higher by a loose yellow jumper. Our day had been one of introspective beauty, both of us unusually silent in the moments, still weighing the hurt. 

Everything changed, unseen, overwhelming, as she slid her warm hand over mine. With a glance, we told each other a thousand things as the bridge closed tight, secure. I exhaled deeply as traffic began, once again, to flow freely, unobstructed.