By Kelsey Layne
Annabelle hated roses. Their beauty never lasted long before each petal withered away. A constant reminder that nothing is permanent.
Her husband, Graham, knew this, or should have considering how many times she’d mentioned it. Yet once again, he arrived home late with a bouquet of roses, the edges already tinted brown.
At dinner, he leaned towards Annabelle, the stench of bourbon heavy on his breath. “Beautiful roses. Aren’t they?”
Annabelle watched a petal float to the floor.
Now, all that’s left is for the sharp bristles of her broom to collect it, only to be forgotten before turning to dust.
Very nice.