The flowers he gave me after the bad fight when he arrived home, silent.
The second time he got a bouquet really in my style from the store, after being surprised at the first one.
At first I hated them. Not because they didn't look nice, but because that's all they were.
I photographed the leaves.
Today I examined them again by the window, how the main flower had wilted and dulled, visibly aged, and the roses were dry. The greenery, and the round yellow ones and papery white ones browned on the edges.
The spray-on florescent pink paint (God knows why they did that) had finally began to flake off, and cracks allowed a better look at the natural petals below.
They will never be my favourite flowers.
But in their wilted and browned state, they are more beautiful than before.
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