She’s pensive. 

He wonders if she’s unhappy with the long stem red roses. The florist had assured him that all women loved red roses. 

She seems deep in thought. 

He was hoping for a big smile and the touch of her soft hand on his. Instead, I’m feeling the Cabernet slide down my tightly muscled throat. Dating is difficult, but meeting for the first time in person instead of on Face Time felt awkward.

Ruby wondered if he could feel her angst.

She loathed her name. She was tired of being told it was an intense color. The only thing she felt strongly about was her angry resentment for her mother. She was a prostitute who wore ruby red colors because the men she accompanied prized the color, especially on her curvy body.

Was this a joke my mother played on me?

The name Ruby means nothing to me. It’s the color of blood, a sign of death. A death I would take pleasure in if it just happened to her by chance.

 Yes, red long-stemmed roses from Randolph would have been lovely if she didn’t hate the color.

Smiling, she squeezes Randolph’s hand. “Thank you for the lovely flowers. You shouldn’t have”.

2022©Isadora DeLaVega

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