Digesting Roses

It’s Friday night again. The doorbell of a Manhattan apartment rings. A middle aged woman opens the door to a young delivery man, holding a bouquet of roses tied together with a velvet ribbon. From his tight blonde curls to his scrawny, spindly legs, you can almost smell the talcum powder on his arse. Veins protrude from her hands as she takes the bouquet from him.  He adjusts his glasses and gives her a sympathetic smile before leaving for his next delivery.

She lays the roses on the granite worktop and dims the light. Then she pours herself a large glass of Muscato. From the fridge she takes a spray can filled with whipped cream and places it on the worktop alongside a tub of hundreds and thousands.

Alanis Morrisette plays from her late Grandmother’s radio while she finishes half of her wine glass in one swallow. She takes a single rose and holds it at the top of the stem, being careful not to prick her fingers. Staring intently at the circular pattern, she decorates it. The sound of the can releasing the cream satisfies her along with the faint smell of play dough coming from the sprinkles. They rest on top of the flower head delicately like candy clouds. 

She takes a bite.

The earthy taste greets her with the sweetness from the cream and the innocence in each sprinkle. Each petal is soft; they lay on her tongue like fresh linen sheets.  She imagines the youthful scarlet pigment being absorbed into her skin. With every mouthful she becomes a little more feminine; a little more beautiful.

Tomorrow there will be a translucent vase standing on the coffee table- just like there was last Saturday and the Saturday before that. Half of the vase will be glued together from when she threw it at the television one night. It will be filled with bare rose stalks, turning brown from the lack of sunlight. She will have tied them together using the same velvet ribbon in a rough double knot. Visitors won’t be invited to see them placed in murky tap water- not suitable for drinking.