I can’t believe it’s ten dollars, ten dollars for a rose. I could drive thirty minutes for a cheaper rose. Thirty minutes south – then it’s not a cheaper rose.
An old man and his wife three houses up the road grow big, bright white roses. At night I’ll take one, just one white rose. They’ll never know.
I’ll give it to a woman, and she’ll never know. She only sees the rose. She sees the rose and knows I spent ten dollars on a rose. It’s enough for me to wonder:
does money, effort, or the rose curve her lips up, lift up her cheeks, hug and kiss me? Perhaps a mixture of the three? In reality it can only be
the rose. I spent neither money nor effort. There’s only the rose. “I love you” for a rose. A stolen, half-assed rose, stolen from the old.