‘That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.’
‘Aachoo!’
‘Bless you.’
‘Sorry.’
***
It should have been a warning sign, a red flag. I should have realised the romance was over then. Now here we are, decades of existing later, but not living, not really. He still buys me a red rose, every anniversary, even though it sets off his hay fever. Friends say it’s romantic, we both know we’re just going through the motions.
***
‘Aachoo!’
‘Bless you.’
We smile our familiar smiles and in our eyes we both acknowledge the truth. And we carry on as before.

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

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