I wrote “Roses” in 1995–6, soon after I started taking writing workshops at Penn State University. My primary interests then were poetry and flash fiction, mainly because I’d yet to write anything longer than 500 words. I didn’t know much about making stories, so everything I wrote that year is an overly precious, roundabout attempt to communicate some tidbit to the reader. Thankfully, I soon lost interest in this kind of stuff; all that remains is that I still fuss too much with my sentences.

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The roses that arrive at the office on Monday have not yet opened; they have no scent. How beautiful, remarks Emily. What’s his name? Karen touches the tight red bulbs, marvels at their resistance. Dennis, she barely answers. Emily tells her: When they open, hang them upside down to dry, to preserve his love. But Gerard suggests she make rose-petal conserves, eaten to calm shakings and tremblings of the heart.

A note came with the flowers, and says nothing concerning last night. This does not surprise Karen; she knows, long ago, roses stood only for silence.

By lunch the first of the roses opens. The night before, wine spills as a glass is overturned. Elsewhere, long before any of this, Dionysus takes notice of a shepherd girl’s delicate beauty.

Karen cannot stop staring at the roses. She touches one stem, presses a thorn against her finger, and it doesn’t hurt. Elsewhere the shepherd girl turns and begins to run. At a god’s command a thorn bush bursts into flower. The girl hesitatingly turns back.

On Thursday Dennis sends her another bouquet, these new roses replacing the old, which have died. The note Karen barely reads asks why she has not returned his calls.

She finds that, like the nightingale, she cannot sleep. At work, Gerard smiles politely and does not ask what is wrong. But the next day he knocks on her door, holding jars and a bag of sugar. Together in silence they make and eat rose-petal conserves, for shakings and tremblings of the heart.