Right away, an array of smells greeted me—coffee, sweet cinnamon, vanilla, graininess, and afloral note as well. I saw the familiar clear plastic container with a dog treat, as always, and—
I froze.
There was—a rose?I sucked in a sharp breath.
Willing myself onward, I plucked it out, examining it as Mr. Beans plotted forward to do the same. He rubbed his cheek against it. I never grew roses; all my attempts had been a disaster. My yard didn’t get enough sun.
I held it to my nose, the velvety petals brushing my lip. Breathing in, the richest scent flooded my nostrils, and my eyes fell shut. I wanted to melt at the smell, so distinct, and unlike any other flower I’d come across.
Bill’s lack of patience became clear as he perched his two front paws on the counter, effectively breaking my trance as he attempted to root his nose into the bag.
Using my elbow, I pushed him back onto the floor. “Bill, no.” I was awful at making him maintain his manners. The world’s most ill-behaved emotional support dog.
I made quick work of preparing his plate, setting it down next to him before pulling out the rest of the bag’s contents. There was a travel tray with what I assumed was a vanilla latte. I wrapped my hand around the cup; the warmth felt wonderful.
Eager to try it, I took a sip, moaning at the fresh taste. I didn’t drink lattes very often because it required going somewhere to get them, but Cat had brought me a few. She’d had me try many flavors over the years, but vanilla was always my favorite.
Next to the drink was another bag. I unrolled it, took apeek, and discovered the biggest, gooiest cinnamon roll imaginable—and it was stillwarm.
I nearly died. This whole thing was—incredible. Male man-cannon status maintained.
I grabbed a new plate and set the cinnamon roll atop it, not caring when Mr. Beans ventured to lick the cream cheese frosting. We could share.
My attention fell back on the rose. I picked it up again. It was light at the center before darkening at the tips of each petal. Picking up my phone, I pulled up ChatGPT—though rife with controversy, it was a very important and useful tool in my world of black and white and a savant to the handicapped. I could appreciate it for that reason. I took a picture of the rose and asked ChatGPT to describe it to me.
The information immediately filled the screen. “Circus Rose,” it read, “characterized by its soft yellow petals that fade to an often dramatic deep red at the tips, symbolizing budding friendship or new love.”
My gut fluttered reading that.
I looked at the rose again, touching the bit that would be yellow, and the tips that would be red. Whether color or black and white, the rose was dramatic, as its name would suggest.
Finding my kitchen string in the drawer, I cut a piece and tied a knot around the short stem before hanging the rose from one of my cabinet knobs. I wanted to let it dry so I could keep it with the rest of my collection.
My phone dinged, and I smiled.
Picking it up, I expected it to be Nash. It wasn’t. Another new number graced my screen with a long message.
Unknown:Hey girl! I saw you on your porch this morning! Isn’t the weather nice?!
Unknown:This is Bee, by the way, across the street! I stole your number from Nash. I hope that’s okay.
Unknown:I don’t have boundaries. ??
I blinked at the messages that flooded in, one after the other. It was so sudden. I didn’t know how to react. Biting the seam of my sweatshirt sleeve for a moment, I pondered over what to text back. While I didn’t know what to say to her message, I had to admit I was—excited?
Happy?
All I’d gathered about her personality at the art show was that she was outgoing. She seemed confident, and didn’t shy away from one-sided conversation. It was perfect. She seemed to handle her brother well enough, and her clothes were obviously to die for. Maybe she could teach me to be a more ‘normal’ woman.
Mulling over what to say, I didn’t want to come across too passive and shy, even though I was. I couldn’t just go with ‘Hi’; that sounded too curt, didn’t it? I didn’t want to sound annoyed or bitchy, though, either.
Pacing, I continued biting my sleeve as I loosened a thread. Passing in front of Mr. Beans and his cream cheese feast, the smell finally drew me in and I tore off a curve of cinnamon roll. When I took a bite, my mouth tingled with cinnamon spice.
Maybe a comment about the weather would suffice?Everyone did that, right? The go-to subject. It’s what she led with, after all.
Mouth full, I began typing.
Me:Yeah, I always prefer the colder months, not a big fan of the summer heat in New York. I live in sweatshirts.
