The florist was clear: you needed the petals from 450 roses. Just perfect, she thought, for she had always planned on asking for K’s hand approximately 450 days after their first date–thus one rose to commemorate each day spent together. Ever the progressive sort, she forbade K to ask her to marry him: When I’m ready, I’ll ask you, she said 300 days ago.

150 days later, she did just that. At a restaurant way out of her price range. It was romantic, if financially ill-advised. They swiftly made plans to marry and she dutifully began plucking the petals from 450 roses. See, she had this grand idea of spreading the petals over the floor of the catherdral where they would claim ownership of each other; a floral walkway from entrance to alter.

She coaxed her vision to fruition, successfully scattering the petals of 450 roses like the ashes of 450 dead things the morning of their wedding. Then she customarily hid herself away until the appropriate time.

But that time never came because K slipped on her rose petal path and broke his neck in an overdetermined fall.

The florist had said something about that possibility. But she pretended not to hear.