Roses are Red

Chapter 21

‘Tick tick tick,’ I hear from the clock. The same incessant noises being spewed in my direction disgusted me. I sat facing the clock, waiting for Zane to return home. He had gone to the market to restock the pantry and insisted that I give him his “time alone”. I feel somewhat punished by this. What could I have possibly done?

Zane had dropped so much information on me so suddenly, and such intense information as well! Even in all his fucked-up glory, I loved him none-the-less. He’s still the boy I fell for and took this crazy path with, and that’s the path I intend to stay on.

Part of me has the nerve to demand he tell me what’s running through his mind, but part of me knows I’ll only stir up unnecessary drama. Every night in bed he doesn’t talk, but simply stares at the celling with his arms across his chest. He doesn’t do it in a way to be rude, but I think it’s so he can try to collect himself.

Imagine the mind is a bottle. Every little secret and memory is written on a tiny little ripped up scrap of paper, crumpled into some sort of ball, and then stuffed into the neck of the bottle. The more secrets and memories, the more filled the bottle will become. Zane’s was overflowing, and one day, along came the hammer that smashed it into itty-bitty pieces. Shattered glass all over the floor, and the more he tries to pick up, the more cut up his hands become. Little pieces of paper flitter across the sky and gently float down onto the ground. What is he to do now? Where will he keep all his secrets and memories?

I hear the click of a key from the doorway.

Click.

I hear the swish of a coat being taken off and a sigh being let free.

Swish.

I hear the gentle footsteps along the corridor, an even time between each step.

Tap, tap, tap, tap tap.

A light laugh escapes his lips as he turns the corner and approaches behind me. His hands gently cup around my eyes and in a low whisper, I hear, “Guess who?”

He swiftly removes his hands from my eyes and lightly lifts my chin to tilt my head back. I smile up at him, and he leans in for a kiss.

“Good afternoon, my lovely Serena,” he says to me as he lifts the grocery bags from the floor and places them with a thump on the countertop. I watch him unpack the items and nonchalantly toss the plastic bags into a drawer for reuse. From what I can see, there looks to be a good chance of him cooking a full meal this evening. Zane loves to cook but doesn’t often.

“Good afternoon,” I reply sweetly. “How was your trip to the store?”

“Uneventful,” he answers.

“No wild goose chase?”

He laughs at my silly little joke.

“No my dear, no wild goose chase.”

“What a disappointment!” I declare with humorous sarcasm.

I walk over to the kitchen and tap my fingers along the edge of the cold, smooth marble countertop.

“So… what’s for dinner this evening?” I ask, trying to find an appropriate line to converse with.

“Baked ziti,” he reveals without looking up from the food in his hand that he was examining.

“Lovely,” I answer lightly and exit the kitchen. Walking up the stairs, I make a left into our bedroom and flop onto the bed.

‘Why do I feel so oppressed while speaking to him? I feel like an excluded child, not knowing what to do or say to have the adults notice you once again. This is Zane I’m talking about, not some stranger off the street!’