The Orchid
He gave me a flower, only once. He turned up to my front door, orchid in hand, and held it out to me with a sheepish smile. When I answered, I feigned delight, pretending surprise. We’d spoken over the phone, only an hour before. I’d told him the news about my new job without him having to ask, as usual. The week prior I’d been round to his with champagne and roses, to celebrate his promotion. He’d blushed, his cheeks turning almost the same shade of pink as the roses in my arms. It was as if no one had ever bought him flowers before. The supermarket price tag was still attached , to the side of the plant pot facing me. I took it from him, thanking him by pressing my lips to his for a brief second, and carried it upstairs with me, the pot propped in the crook of my arm. I'd already placed it on my windowsill by the time he'd followed up behind me. Only two weeks later, he was smoking a cigarette out of my bedroom window. He’d declined my offer of morning sex, and I wa...