“Ouch,” she uttered, pulling back her finger from the rose stem. A thorn had pricked her and a drop of blood lay on her finger, perfectly placed like it always belonged there. She smiled.
“Got yourself another prick, did you now?” her husband asked, as he sat in the hall, immersed in the morning’s papers on his iPad.
“Why can’t he just buy those traditional newspapers?” she wondered. She wasn’t an e-paper girl.
“Why don’t you hire a gardener for your plants?” he asked, the umpteenth time. “You keep pricking yourself.”
She didn’t answer. The umpteenth time. He wouldn’t be able to come to terms with it.
The first time she’d pricked herself was when her first lover had brought her some from his own garden, ten years ago.They’d never gotten married. But her love for him had not died.
He loved her rose garden. He was coming for dinner tonight.
The first prick had made her squirm. Now it made her smile.