Roses

And when he hits you do not cry, close your eyes, take a deep breath count to ten: One— The single red rose he sent on your birthday with a note that read “My love is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June.” And you were so willing to believe. Two— Everything good came in two’s: Two rosebud lips parted in a half-shy smile, two hands connecting two free spirits, two bodies entwined, two golden rings promising forever. Three— So much happens in three years. You buy a house and plant a little rose bush in the backyard, but it doesn’t grow. He knows how much this hurts you, so along with food he puts store-bought flowers on your table… flowers with no note. And to pay for this extravagance he starts working late at the office. Four— On the August fourth he wakes you with a kiss and whispers ‘Happy Birthday.’ You watch him dress in bewilderment; you didn’t think he would remember. As he leaves he tells you to meet him in the park by the rose garden, and sleepily you say you will. Not until he's gone do you remember that it’s your anniversary. Five— He’s late. Shrug it off, five minutes is no big deal, but five stretches to fifty and it begins to rain. Trudging home you pass the place where inside he laughs with another her. Six— You will forgive him, since there’s nothing else you can do. But when he sees you and he knows that you know he cannot forgive himself. Six days he will stay with you before he goes back. Seven— On the seventh morning, 2 am, sneaking out he does not expect to meet you by the door, holding his dried rose in your palms. He knows that he is guilty, but it must be your fault so he knocks you out of the way —out of sight, out of mind—and goes to her. Eight— At 7:29 he stumbles, drunk, in your doorway: demands his dinner ready at eight, with the back of his hand across your face to emphasize his point. Take a deep breath in, and out. And remember that this man is your prince, your Julius Caesar, so serve him Cleopatra’s nectar and when he asks why the wine tastes funny, you simply tell him it’s to help with his headache. Nine— In nine months there will be another fatherless child. Ten— At the funeral you watch as ten withered leaves dance down from the broken autumn limbs; one lands on the grave—right where you will lay a single, withered, red rose.