I dressed in white that morning. Well, white skirts. Somewhere inside me is some sort of past life memory yearning for petticoats and layers and full skirts. So I was barefoot that afternoon, in white skirts and a gauzey little strappy peasant top, all tiny blue flowers on white. I'd been reading in the garden and the sun was still in my hair and in my eyes when I answered the door. For a second I could register what I was seeing. A woman was standing there with a grin, and buckets of white tulips. A little sea of them. She handed me an armful, and a clipboard, and asked me to sign for them. And I did, in a daze, staring at my own little meadow of white flowers that had appeared at my door.
You came home, and found me, still in the hall, sitting on the dark stained boards with flowers all around me, flowers in my arms, white on white, the waxy too perfect petals and matte green leaves pressing cooly against my breasts, cold under my chin. Bare toes framed against the floorboards by frothy white ruffles on one side and green stalks and white flowers on the other. Your lips on mine were petal soft, warm, not cool like the flowers' kiss. 'Wait! Don't crush the flowers!' And you laughed, you never let me kill the moment, and led me upstairs to the white bed instead, to push my skirts up my thighs and make my petals open to you, let me thank you for the way you see me, for what you think I deserve.