We stood at the window, drinking wine, admiring the garden. Pink roses threatened to conquer the lawn. A watercolour. One flower bleeding into the next.
The next time, the bush was meeker. You poured a glass and said it would bounce back. No worry.
A few months later, I thought it sick: branches swooping low as a willow. You denied it, offered tea. You had no milk. No wine.
Now, you grip the countertop, pouring lukewarm water into an oily glass. I curse myself, the clock, your lies: stare at those last delicate petals, shrinking and fading before my eyes.
Dreena Collins is a writer who also works for a mental health charity. She writes commercial women's fiction as Jane Harvey and short and literary fiction as herself!
This story was shortlisted in the May 24 Monthly Micro Competition