Short Stories
Each year he brings her a dozen roses, one of each color found at the tiny shop at the end of the street. He has the lady behind the counter tie a yellow bow around the crispy cellophane that covers his fragrant purchase. He always asks for the red rose to be set aside, wrapped in babies breath and soft tissue. That is the one, he says, that means I love you.
He has placed this order each Valentines for forty years. The woman behind the counter had long since stopped charging him for the bouquet. She just tells him she'll 'put it on his tab' and smiles gently. She knows the story of his love, she'd watched it blossom and bloom and to her, it was more beautiful than any flower in her little shop.
He met her on Valentines Day. From the moment their eyes met he knew he would forever be bound in love to her. She was just eighteen and he nearly twenty. She was seated on an old wooden bench near the flower shop, her head hung in sadness. Tears stained her dress as they fell. His heart broke to see her weep.
Such a beautiful creature to be so alone, he thought. He stepped into the flower shop and asked the young woman behind the counter if she knew who the girl was and what had made her so very sad. The woman did not know her name but told him that she had heard a youg man speak harshly to her just minutes earlier.
He simply couldn't believe someone could speak a cruel word to the angel his eyes had beheld. He quickly purchased a yellow rose but as the florist began to prepare his gift for giving he saw the young girl rise and begin to walk away. He took the rose in haste and ran after her, afraid he would be too late if he didn't act quickly.
His heart beat faster with each step that drew him closer to her. When she stopped at the corner, he quickly placed the rose in her hand and stood there in awkward silence, his icy breath pluming out into the cold afternoon air. Before his heart could gather the words he wished to speak, he noticed a small droplet of blood fall from her dainty finger to the snow white ground beneath their feet.
A thorn had been left on the long stem of the rose, his heart sank. It was not his intention to cause her any more pain. When his gaze was drawn back toward her and their eyes met, he saw that tears no longer filled them. A beautiful smile lay on her delicate lips. It was the last Valentines day either of them would be without love.
The following year on the anniversary of the day they met, they where wed. Every year after, he made the trip to the same little floral shop and purchased his bride a dozen roses. She could never pick a favorite color so he would buy them in every shade the shop had to offer and have them bound with a yellow ribbon in remembrance of the very first rose he had offered her.
He always let the red rose stand alone, a symbol of his purest love for her. She never failed to be delighted with his offering of affection. He knew this year would be no different. He closed his eyes and envisioned her lovely smile before driving on to meet her in what had become their own special place.
The chill in the air hurt his tired bones as he stepped out into the brisk and biting February wind. His heart quickened as he neared her, just as it had on that very first day. He took his place beside her and presented her with the colorful bouquet and whispered his love to her.
He talked for some time, reliving memories from days long since past. Some of the memories brought laughter, some brought tears. She always loved the way his eyes twinkled when he told tales of their youth. The day began to grow colder as dusk began to take reign in the sky.
Slowly, he lifted the single red rose and placed it atop the marble stone above her resting place. He closed his eyes one last time to see her smile. Until next year my love. He looked skyward for just a moment before he began his lonely trek back to the car. In the wind he thought he heard a whisper, his heart told him it was her.
(c) Crystal R. Cook
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