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A beautiful red heart, worked from wax; a small raccoon plushie; an empty bottle of Cuervo, a dead rose sitting wilted within. A broken shot glass on the floor, not far from the bottle, a lime slice next to it. Eleven more wilted roses sat in a makeshift vase on the table; a small card dipping into the tainted water, drawing the liquid into its fibers and blurring the text. The silence in the room would have been deafening if not for the distant clutter of pans in the apartment across the hall. He walked into the room, hands hidden behind his back. I had seen him through the window as he got out of the taxi, so I knew he had a bouquet for me. The boxes were a mystery. Then again, the entire occasion was a mystery. Valentine’s Day had come and gone, with him adamantly refusing to celebrate it, calling it a ‘Hallmark Holiday’. Our anniversary wouldn’t be for another seven and a half months, if we survived that long, and neither of us had birthdays coming up. The calendar made no note of a holiday he might be celebrating, and yet, here he was. Part of me hoped one of those boxes contained a diamond ring, but I knew I couldn’t allow myself to get my hopes up. I had been hurt before, and I didn’t want to go down that road again. She looked down at her left hand; bare. She must have taken it off over the course of the evening. She tried to remember why, but her head pounded a warning and she backed off that particular train of thought. It would come to her later. It was probably put back in the box for safe-keeping. She smiled a little at the memory of the ring. Thin, white gold band, thirteen small diamonds arranged beautifully along the band to complement the larger diamond in the centre. A dark red spot on the couch made itself noticeable to her, and she frowned. The wine had spilt when he had proposed; she’d been so surprised, she had forgotten she’d even been holding a glass. It would have to be thrown out. For now, though, she flipped the cushion over so it looked clean. “Will you marry me?”
