Thorn
He hands me a bundle of roses he knows are covered in thorns.
Exactly eleven to remind me that he cares, but not enough to get a dozen perennials and make me feel special. He knows how to play this game very well, but I won’t let him win. In fact, neither of us ever do.
Blood drips down my hand with little remorse for my now ruined dress. I don’t hesitate to press my thumb to his lips, allowing him to taste some of his sweet victory. He gladly licks the sweetness I offer him to let me know he appreciates the kind gesture. I refuse to let my annoyance at his satisfaction show, he hardly deserves the attention. The roses fall to the floor as my arms drape around his neck. I can’t quite tell if I want to choke him or wrap him in a loving embrace. The night was young and I was hoping he would push me to the brink of madness. The roses snap under the weight of my heels as I hold him close.
Without another word, he scoops me into his arms and swings me around once and then twice. Round and round we go in this never-ending cycle, I love it. When he finally decides to set me down, we’re both much too dizzy to see the world around us. The city lights that glimmer outside of this hotel mean nothing to us as everything blurs.
He doesn’t want me to lose sight of our game as he guides my face back his way when my attention starts to stray. And like a moth drawn to a flame, I allow him to capture my attention. Sweet whispers of nothing are spoken into my ear as he pulls me to his chest. I laugh as his words manage to tickle me in more than a few ways.
“I love you.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I know he does. Why else would he get me eleven roses if not for the very fact that he adored me? I won’t allow myself to say anything as I stoop down and pick up one of the roses. He knows what I want him to do and he knows he has no choice but to do it. Such is the life of the cat and the mouse, we know our roles in this match of life.
His hand smoothly takes the rose before squeezing it between his fingers. He makes it his purpose to press down as hard as he can on the stem in order to snap the rose in two. Before the bud breaks off, he plucks it with much precision and places it in my hair. In so, I feel he’s saying there’s no other place he’d rather be than here with me in this hotel with my blood in his mouth. And equally, I the same.
We both know by daybreak we will have had another mundane argument that leads us straight to the bed for a passionate night. He knows I’ll try to walk out before he wakes to add a little spice to our romance. I know he’ll beat me to the door to throw me back in bed so we can have our way with each other once more.
Some would say we were toxic; others would call us passionate. We simply call it love because we understand that this is what we desire in our relationship. I don’t need the pretty words woven with lies. I don’t care for nor need him to buy me all the riches of the world.
Our love is absolute and beautiful, just as the broken roses scattered on the floor are. Our love was truly like a crimson-dyed rose adorning the most beautiful rose bush.
For as the saying goes, there is no rose without a thorn.