By Kate-Yeonjae Jeong
The morning exactly sixty days later, I opened my front door, freshly painted marigold-orange, a change from classic oak.
There lay on the welcome mat a bouquet of roses. Five crimson roses, twelve spiky leaves.
I sat there, on the floor, just staring. Gingerly, I loosened a branch from its silk-ribbon grasp. A waft of rich fragrance washed over. Small tears slipped out from my eyes.
Behind me, the orange door creaked; Holly, my roommate, peeked out with coffee-stained pants. “Breakfast?” she asked, then took in the roses.
“Five years ago today, right?” she whispered.
I sniffed. “The florist should stop.”
The sharp ending is a fitting contrast to the sweetness of the beginning. Not all flowers are welcome. A friend of mine used to throw expensive Valentine offerings into the bin every year.
Is it meant to be sixty-month roses? Because I don’t get why there’s mention of sixty days and five years?? Also, why would a florist send the flowers? Surely someone sends them through the florist? I was confused by this one… :/
I was confused, also.