Tales of the Vices

Three Loves

I finger the flowers in my hand. The three roses in my hands are fresh, and I turn them over, musing upon my sorrow. A man I was supposed to meet tonight, but alas, he has not shown.

I look to the sky, the rain pelting my face. The droplets upon my face are not all water.

I sigh, looking down. the roses are still bright, so should I not be glad?

That seems to be my life these days, sighs and broken promises, false hopes and fallen dreams.

The air is cold, and the time is late. He is thirty minutes late, but I must persist. The inside of the restaurant seems so inviting, almost calling to me with its warmth and light.

But I must wait.

I look again to the roses, inspecting each in turn.

I pluck the first, the red rose, from my fingers, and think upon its colour.

The colour of blood, of passion, of lust, it shows how I want him.

The white rose, the colour of purity, of truth, of inescapable death, shows how far I shall follow him.

The pink rose, the colour of nurture, shows how much I care for him.

These, my three symbols of love, I would give to him. But he is not here to receive them.

I sigh again, but something grabs my attention.

I look up at the sound of dress shoes on pavement.

A tall man approaches, his eyes roaming the streets, until they lock with mine.

My heart quickens, and a breath catches on my throat. He's arrived.

He returns my smile, hooks his arm through mine, and we proceed into the restaurant.

***

We walk along the footpath, away from the restaurant. He holds the red rose in his hands, and smiles the whole way.

In the light of passing lamps I catch glimpses of his face. Rarely do his eyes stray from mine.

Our hands are entwined, and we walk close, our shoulders rubbing. I stand on my toes to kiss him; he is a couple inches taller than me.

Our lips connect, and I cannot hold back. I push him against the wall, and he gives a small grunt of surprise.

This close I can smell the lemon myrtle on his skin, that oh so familiar smell.

He pushes against my lips with surprising force, and I kiss him even harder.

He puts a finger to my lips and whispers, "not now, my love, we're almost there"

I smile giddily and slightly embarrassed. He simply smiles back.

***

We enter the apartment, and I note the modest furnishing before my lover takes me to a separate room, redolent with the scent of myrtle.

He looks me in the eyes, and offers me a rose.

Red, for how much he wants me.

I smile as I toss him to the bed. I rip his shirt from his body and kiss him as my name passes his lips.

"Peter..."