Pretending to sleep was the first way her body learned to survive. The words burned across the backs of her eyelids, confirming there would be no rest tonight, not with the way the day had unfolded. A bouquet of pink-blushed crysanthemums was delivered to her office with a card.
Call Me.
Only one person had ever known her favourite flowers because they were tied to memories and people and places she only visited in her nightmares. If you asked her today, she’d say, “Roses”. Any rose. Nobody asked why you liked Roses; it was logged into the commercial DNA of expressing love. It was… easy. If you said you loved Crysanthemums… well, everyone wanted to know why. What was so special about flowers you struggled to spell, and why did they have to be that particular shade? Too many questions. To answer either one would be to open a wound, and she did not want to bleed on the outside or explain why the symbol on the card matched the fading tattoo on her wrist.
Another bouquet just as big and beautiful arrived in her home- same message.
Call Me
She read it only as intended. “I know where you live”. She knew the number to call; it was the first thing she was forced to memorise outside of schoolwork, once upon a time.
Her husband slid into the bed and pulled her body close. The weight of him was comforting, even though she knew there would be no rest tonight. He kissed her shoulders once, twice, and started to travel up her neck.
Okay. Sex.
That should wear her out, make her sleep. Tomorrow, she would explain why there are crysanthemums in the bin. She would consider explaining.
