I felt better than I had all weekend. Paul surely would calm down with
Yvonne. And she wasn't going to loiter with Gwen that evening.
It left me with nothing to worry about except a no longer very sore
spot in my throat--and with no emotion to grapple--except a feeling of
being lonelier than God.
I went back to my room and turned the lights on bright and sat down and
looked at the roses Dave had sent.
They were my flowers-for-the-living and, being alive, they should be
appreciated.
There they stood--with lighter green stems and leaves than most roses
and perilous, pale-green thorns. The blooms weren't quite full blown,
in spite of the heat, and they were as large as any I'd ever seen--as
long as my fingers. The many lamps in the room highlighted the curved
outer edges of the flowers and left only the deep, inner shadows. The
petals were as voluptuous as a woman's skin; they seemed to glow, like
an aniline dye in ultraviolet rays. A slightly sharp perfume filled
the room--a mnemonic of things that could not be materialized, of tea
roses in childhood gardens and people who had been nice to you and died
a long time ago. There they stood--stiff and radiant and hopelessly
beautiful.
I let myself feel them--feel them the way you let yourself feel when
the concert hall goes dark and the baton makes its first, swift oval.
They came from hothouses.