venta

I wanted her to know: to know exactly how I loved her, but how she hurt me, and so I stood there at the bottom of the escalator that I knew she'd descend, waiting, clutching the stems of the stolen red roses in a hand white with tension, feeling them bite into my palms. [1]

I'd come up with the idea while Mike and I were drowning our sorrows next to Ms. McClintock's rose garden. He'd splurged on some upmarket fizz, and we'd only started into the bottle when he said, "That b---- is like these flowers. Pretty, but you can't touch 'em." I don't know whether he was talking about his dame or mine, but either way, it's no way to speak about a lady.

So I punched him out. Funny how the brain works: as the shock ran up to my elbow, I realized he was kind of right. And that she needed to know. So I grabbed a handful of stems, tipped my hat to Ms. McClintock as a gesture of respect, caught a cab to the station, and began a long night of waiting.

Pity I forgot the bottle.