- me: *sniffs air*
- me: ah september
- me: the time where bugs die
- me: and tv shows gradually return from hiatus
- me: aaah
Why is the rum always gone?
My nose twitches. It’s the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved cousins, is a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.
And I know immediately who’s sent it to me.
I GET IT.