One evening, I was talking a leisurely stroll along the neighbourhood admiring the beautiful Victorian houses and the topaz sunset, the clouds hemmed with golden lace, the sun glowing like a firefly and most importantly a beautiful woman stopping to smell the roses. Her hair fell perfectly imperfectly in royal auburn ringlets, the dress she wore, decorated with buttercup lace, flowed effortlessly gorgeously down her figure and the adorable burgundy doc martins half covering the knitted white knee high socks. Upon her head laid a marigold and primrose flower crown and her necklace read Roselyn backed by miniature rose charms dangling off the delicate silver chain. As I drew near her my body grew warmer, like it had just entered a mist of warmth or just surrounded by blankets, the aroma of sweetness enveloped me as I bent down and sniffed the subtle floral smell the roses gave off. Looking down at my jeans I picked a single flower from the bush and swooped into a bow in front of her. Her already rosy cheeks flared scarlet and her pale green eyes darted around the space behind me. Slowly her hand guided towards mine and she took the rose, she didn't say anything but the moment made even me blush and it was perfect. When the sun finally went down and the beautiful light faded we exchanged glances and faced each other, I took a step forward and tucked her soft hair behind her ear and whispered "Mrs Yellow Rose." She blushed immediately, still tightly gripping the rose I gave her. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
