Roses are Red

The young shop assistant had withdrawn into a corner, trying not to sulk. Despite an amused twinkle in her eyes, the old lady who had been observing him for quite some time smiled gently at him. "Is Madama Fiorella giving you a hard time?"

"She never allows me to attend to him," he pouted, yet blushing at being so easy to read. "He has to be very wealthy, so maybe that's why she's so eager to... I mean," he stammered, horrified that she might suspect him of speaking ill of his employer or, even worse, of spying on customers, "I only g-guessed, because of his demeanour, his appearance... oh, I'm not - I'm just thinking about this... w-wondering... I m-mean, you'd expect someone like him to buy something really special, really expensive. And we've got such magnificent offers right now - here, take a look at these orchids, they're enchanted to sparkle when being approached, or these bellflowers, they actually are-" Realising that he had involuntarily started to reel off this week's advertising speech, he bit his lips in embarrassment, his cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson.

Although she apparently had to try hard to stifle a grin, the old lady gave the boy a reassuring smile. Her eyes, though, never left the tall, slim, almost gaunt figure of the blond man who, simply by raising a pale eyebrow, made Madama Fiorella rush back into the stockroom again and again, present flower after flower to him - all of which he had been refusing so far by a nearly imperceptible tilt of his pointed chin.

"So, he doesn't live up to your expectations?" the lady asked teasingly, the tone of her voice light, her hands nestling at her concrete-like bun - but her eyes brimming with emotions he wasn't sure he could read, sad and wistful yet tender and... loving?

"No-oh. He really looks like being able to purchase the whole shop on a mere whim. But, nothing enchanted, nothing extraordinary for him, always only one single red rose - though, he insists on... no, he doesn't insist, doesn't have to - it's just - that you wouldn't dare, wouldn't even think of anything else but get him the most beautiful one. I'd really" with a sudden outburst of confidence he leant to her, "really like to know who he is. He's so... so... just have a look around, it's always like that, whenever he enters, he immediately attracts everyone's attention but seems to be totally unaware of-"

He stopped at hearing her draw a deep breath, almost a gasp. And when she spoke, her voice sounded almost harsh, offended. "What do you mean, you would like to know... oh, no, no. I'm sorry, boy. No, of course, you wouldn't know who he is, you're far too young. Haven't seen him for years myself, actually... don't know... I wonder for whom he- oh, maybe..." gradually, the old lady's voice had become lower, softer, as though she were talking to herself, "God, I do hope that he's over- that he's finally beginning to-"

But, as he went by - as oblivious to her presence as to the murmurs, and the glances of the other customers - she caught sight of the shimmering ribbon that was wound around the stalk of the rose.

Imprinted letters, shining silver on golden silk.

She fell silent, holding her breath, her right hand pressed onto her quivering mouth. Exhaling deep, she lowered her head, closing her eyes as if she were in pain.

Our love lasts forever.