Books in a Book

Two - Scent of the Rose

Full lips, a vivid carmine red.

Soft skin, a gleaming soft cream.

Long hair, the colour of noon sunshine.

Bright eyes, the shade of new spring leaves.

Marcello pushed the black hair that had gotten too long out of his face as gazed at the picture of Rosa Gabriella Delight.

She was perfect. His Rose.

Had been his Rose.

He hated her with all his heart. Yet he loved her with every fibre of his being.

Especially her scent.

Oh heavens, her scent.

It was everything to him. Everything he adored, everything he despised and everything in between.

She smelled like her rose counterpart, the Double Delight, the flower she believed she was in a past life. Marcello was surrounded by them.

Roses lay scattered, trampled on his rug, but some stood tall and pampered in pots.

He believed he was a good enough guy. Didn't deserve her but would do anything to make her happy.

Rosa didn't think so. No, she had chosen that teacher across the street.

Aged twenty seven, two months and three weeks, with a mole behind his left ear. Didn't use glasses, had a shoe size of exactly forty and half and didn't have freckles. Marcello might have known a thing or two about Alan Frederick Baker.

She had freckles though. Cute ones, the hue of rich soil, smattered across her nose.

He detested that Alan had a Delight. Both the flower and the woman.

Marcello leaned down to a put his nose to a flower pot. Inhaled deep and long, his grey eyes rolling to the back of his head. The scent was addicting.

A fragrance that smelled good enough to eat, so citrusy. Yet spicy, with a zing that hit you hard and left you wanting for more.

He fell to the navy blue rug and covered his face with detached petals, inhaling some more. His lithe body shook from the high, heart rate accelerating.

He kissed a delicate petal. Then jumped up and crushed them beneath his feet.

Why? Why had she left him?

It didn't matter if she had reasons, didn't matter what they were. What mattered is she should have not have left him!

He couldn't concentrate. Had lost his job, car and dog. Was loosing his house, family and friends. His life. That was why she loathed her.

He bent again to sniff the flattened, intoxicating flowers on the floor.

It calmed him down. Yet it didn't.

He knew why.

When he breathed in the aroma, all he could feel was her. Even with his eyes closed, all he saw was her.

Her, her, her.

Her.

On some days, his two opposite feelings were balanced. But on this particular Saturday morning, he felt he loved her a little more than he hated her.

He had to have her back.

He would have her back.

Marcello straightened, a smile teasing his lips. Yes, he would convince her to take him back.

He was out the door before he remembered shoes. And trousers. He ran back in to take them along with a whiff of her heady scent.

As well as a knife.

He didn't want Alan to be there which he talked to his rose. That wouldn't do. And to convince him to leave, he might need a little persuasion.