Write about: the flower.
Today's high was supposedly -12 here, but with the wind finally leaving us alone to go hassle somewhere else it felt damned near tropical.
Things are expected to return to above freezing by the end of the week, so there's that to look forward to as well. Until then? Soups, fireplace, hot drinks.
We might be making our final visit to Vancouver Irrealis tomorrow. Not sure yet, but I have a theme week in mind that I'd like to get started on soon and don't really want to put off the end of this year's saga for seven days or more.
So, likely, the yearlong prompt comes to its conclusion on Monday and then a theme week begins either Tuesday or Wednesday. Consider yourselves warned.
I wake in the morning light to find myself alone, a single flower left on his pillow to serve as... something. A replacement? An apology? Thanks?
Ugh, please don't let it be that last one.
Without pausing to study the parting gift, if that's what it is, I shower and get dressed. I've got coffee brewing and breakfast in the oven before I remember my phone is still on my bedside table. I enter the room, grab my cell, and I'm heading for the door when the smell stops me in my tracks.
I turn to take a closer look at the flower, realizing that I'd initially assumed that it was a rose. Typical, predictable rose. But no, that sweet jasmine scent tells me I was wrong.
An orchid. How delightfully unexpected. Where could he have... oh no.
I rush to the window, look down at Mrs. Wheeler's garden. Her prized centerpiece is missing. Maybe I can blame it on a deer or dog or... wait a second. She'll have no reason to suspect this has anything to do with me. I'll just offer condolences when she surely complains to me about it when I pass by on my way home from work this afternoon. No biggie.
Then I see the muddy footprints leading from her yard to my backdoor.