“What Are You Doing Sneaking Into My Backyard In The Middle Of The Night, Stealing My Roses?”
“What are you doing sneaking into my backyard in the middle of the night, stealing my roses?”
Oh, fuck.
I’d completely forgotten about the flowers. Now, I feel them plastered to my rapidly breathing chest, my fingers wrapped around the stems in a death-grip.
I tuck my hair behind my ears with my free hand and explain, “I only took the dying ones. Not the good ones.”
Mr. Edwards throws them a distracted glance like he couldn’t care less about the flowers. “Yeah? Why not the good ones?”
At his question, I lower my eyes to them. I finger the yellowed edges lightly. Some of the petals are so loosened and dry that a puff of air could make them fall apart.
Poor babies.
“Because no one else wants the bad ones,” I say.
“And you do.”
I look up. “Yes. I always want the bad ones.”
Bad things. Bad roses. Bad crushes.
His frown gets even deeper. I almost wonder if he’s doing himself a permanent injury by frowning this much. “Why’s that?”
“Because everyone wants something pretty. Something that’s fresh and beautiful. Something that’s perfect. But then, what about the things that are imperfect? Things that might not be as pretty or as conventional. Things that might be weird, outdated or outcast? They’re not in much demand, are they? They’re not wanted. But I do. I want them. So they don’t feel rejected.”
Dreams of 18 by Saffron A. Kent
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“Oh—and in case you forgot, we’re naked. Now, I know some women have issues with their bodies. Maybe you’ve got a little extra junk in the trunk? Get over it. Doesn’t matter. Naked kicks Modest’s ass every single time. Men are visual. We wouldn’t be fucking you if we didn’t want to look at you. You can write that down if you like.”
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Tonight.”
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