Still Life

Thomas Kearnes

I still have the fake yellow rose you bought me. It was cheap and awful. Our first weekend together, you presented it from the doorway. The rose was wrapped in clear plastic. Underneath, imitation lace wound around the stem.   You apologized for it. It’s nothing, you said. I kissed you as the door stood open. Any neighbor might happen upon two young men kissing on my front porch. More often, you were inhibited.  The ferocity of my emotions disturbed you. Four years later, your fake rose stays pinned to my wall. I’ve let many men inside my home since you slammed out my door that final time, but none of them have asked about it. If one ever does, I will tell him this story. I will tell him that it’s my first flower from a boy. I will tell him it is not real, so it cannot die.