‘That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.’
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.
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).