The Black Rose

Hi!
This story has been written to bring a little hope to my readers in these dark times. Where the dreariness of our work has become a routine, with little to smile about, I hope that this story helps you turn a new page in your journals. Wishing you the best of health, happiness and success, 
Happy Reading!

TheyCallMeAndromeda

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Having completed my assignments for the day, I decide to head to the Better Brews for a cup of their marvelous latte. Three years of living in the same building and locality have made me their regular. Madame Jenkins often surprises me with a new latte art she came across on the Internet and had decided to give a try to.

Three months- it has taken me three months to find enough time to get to reading my newest find on poetry- "A Little Book of Beauty", a compilation of short poems by Ruskin Bond.

As I settle in my little corner, next to the bookshelves and the bamboo fountain, I am presented with a latte with the latest of Jenkins' tries- a snowflake. Satisfied with coffee, I dive into the depths of my book to get lost in its pages.

Any sane person would have noticed the flutter around them, the unusual bustle in a typically quiet parlor. They would have noticed the magic in the air and the fragrance in the wind- the song in the tinkle of the wind-chime and the aura of amour that surrounded the two-seater next to the silly little fountain. Oh, but not me, no. For me the only magic that exists is between the words of this page and the next, and then perhaps in the following string of rhymes.

It takes me two cups of coffee and a dark chocolate muffin to realize that a tiny gift has been left on my table. A flower, huh? No- wait, not just any flower a rose, an almost black, blue rose. My eyes scour the crowd around me to find its owner. Not a single critter in sight. My gaze falling back to the black pearl in hand, I settle back into my chair. The petals are still moist with dew drops. There is not a thorn on the stalk.

Perhaps, someone has left it here by chance, may be it is not even for me. Maybe it was meant for somebody else and sings the song of their heartbreak. But maybe, just maybe, it is meant for me. Perhaps, that someone does not want to be found yet.

Well, that's alright. I must continue reading my book, with a black rose in my hand and a contented smile on my face. Let this chapter remain incomplete for a while. Till then the black rose will serve only as a reminder that love does exist, and I may not know who they were, I will not search for them today.

For they will be found when they want to be found and so will I.

So I leave, with a resolve to find time for myself more often, especially if it brings such wonderful gifts, and a promise to find the owner of my newest bookmark the next time Madame Jenkins makes me a cup of coffee.

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Thank you for reading!
Do let me know if you would like to read more short stories written by yours truly.

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