White Roses

The first time he saw her he fell in love. Her face so familiar,
like he had seen it a thousand times before. She sat silently; gently
reading a novel that he himself had enjoyed frequent times. Her face
innocent, skin pure.
He watched her for hours, working absent-mindedly as his eyes pierced
her flesh with their longing stare. Eventually she stood and left. He
followed her instinctively, reflex rather than decision.
She walked smoothly down the road and turned down another. He followed
her for a while, enjoying the way she moved and silently swept through
the crowds of people. She came to a little florist in a small street
that he did not recognise. Though caution urged him not to, he
approached the small shop and peeked through the window. She daintily
perused the flowers, occasionally stopping to smell their sweet
fragrance?
He imagined himself helping her to pick her favourite flowers. He
would place his arms around her soft body as she leant forward and
picked a bunch of pure white roses, turning to smile at him as he
sneezed unexpectedly.

The shop door shut with a slam, jolting him from his dreams. Before he
knew it, she was gone. He ran back to work, surprised at his courage in
having steeped out so easily, after all, work was his life.
When he got back to the library there was a long queue of people
waiting for him, he avoided their glances by looking at his
shoes.
He did not know exactly why he had applied for the job as a librarian,
except his love of literature. He had not had many jobs before:
Butcher, cleaner and his least favourite; working in a factory. He
hated the camaraderie that existed between the ignorant employees
there, the way each person blended into that same indefinable mould.
Being a librarian was different for him, he could be alone with his
thoughts. And he enjoyed observing the various faces that solemnly sat
and escaped their lives with so much ease into the works of Dickens,
McEwan and others.
That night he left work sombrely, wincing out the thought of his
virginal goddess who so easily escaped his warm grasp. He walked
through the damning rain to his home. He entered the little flat with a
sigh, looked to the answer machine to find that familiar non-blinking
light. He had a warm, cleansing bath that washed the memories of the
day away. He lay in his bed with his book, escaping to another world,
unsure of what to do. He put the thought of her out of his mind.
A week of rain passed before he saw her again. Each night before one
of discontented sleep and each day long. He had not seen her enter the
library, she was sifting quietly through each aisle in search of a
novel she eventually found, one he himself had read not a fortnight
ago.
Before he knew it she was approaching him. His heart beat against his
body, like a hammer to the anvil, beating down with strong precision.
He became aware that she was stood before him, his slack face staring
into hers. He looked away abruptly, his face red with blood and
apology. As he took the book from her outstretched hand he observed how
small and tender it was, he brushed against her fingers faintly.
Electricity ran down his arm and into his body from her touch, which
was soft and warm. He realised that he was shaking and took up his
stamp and hit it purposefully against the blank paper?
He imagined their first fight, her arms beating against his body in
frustration as he held her away from him. She would grow frustrated and
throw something. A smash of glass and White Roses on the carpet. The
apologies silent and his arms around her as she filled a new vase and
placed the flowers deftly in, allowing the short stems new life to feed
on.

He looked up and saw that she had gone, but he knew that she would be
back. As he walked home that evening the sun was high in the sky,
warmth beat down upon him. He entered his apartment and opened an old
half bottle of wine to celebrate his bright mood. He entered the living
room that he never went in and put on a piece of music by Chopin on the
rusty stereo, he fell back onto his soft couch?
He imagined her with him in the room as they danced, holding each
other closely, they would dance all night, not to Chopin, but some
interesting foreign band that she would introduce him to, that had a
real kick. He would hold on to her warm body as she moved and danced,
and he would hold a White Rose in his mouth as he held her steadily in
their graceful living room that had been unused too long.

That night he climbed into bed quickly, eagerly anticipating a new day
and new people. As he lay in bed he threw his book to the floor, not
caring for its shallow story and uninteresting characters. Instead he
thought of her?
He imagined her there with him in bed, his arms round her as she slept
lightly. He lay there with her and watched her body's rise and fall of
life. He placed a White Rose into her long, fair hair carefully, and
wept at the sight of those two natural things joined together in
beauty.

The week passed quickly, sun and warmth filled his every thought. At
night he did not care for his novel, but instead lay and thought about
her, times that they would spend together.
Another day had nearly passed when he saw her in the library again.
She was sitting expectantly, not reading. She turned her head and her
eyes gazed in his direction, a warm smile came to her face. His heart
lit up at the sight of that beautiful smile, and his body expelled all
sadness that had enveloped him. She walked in his direction, and as he
was about to speak, passed him by with no sign of recognition. He
followed her path, the world stopping as if he were in a dream, as she
fell into the arms of another. She kissed the other man passionately
and fully, a kiss that's echo touched his lips as he thought of the
times they had spent together. She left after a time, leaving him, with
his books and shattered dreams. His body sank, she was gone, and would
not be back.
That night he left work and walked home through the pouring rain in
the direction of the flat. Yet when he got there he did not much feel
like going in, so walked in the rain some more, its coldness enveloping
him. He returned to his flat late, and let himself in. As the door
slammed he heard a siren in the distance?
He entered the unused room again, the rusty stereo in the corner,
reminding him of the time they had danced, had no worries. As he sat he
was aware of her eyes on him. He moved towards her body and placed his
arms around her, one last time. Glass lay around her soft head, the
remains of their vase. Tears rolled down his cheeks and onto hers,
giving the impression she was crying. He closed here eyes with his
fingers. He tried to calm her dishevelled hair; she had always kept it
so clean and pure, like she should have always remained. He could feel
her wounds; she had bled for such a long time. Beneath her head lay the
flowers. Their shrivelled, dead petals. Red with her stain. Her White
Roses.