When inspiration strikes
Amy put on her most conservative black suit, with a cream turtleneck, to hide her collar
and the love bites that were smattered over her creamy skin. She slipped her black leather
pumps onto her stockinged feet, and cleared her throat as she brushed her hair out and
neatly pinned it back from her face. She breezed out of her apartment...their
apartment, picking up her black leather handbag from the end table. She climbed smoothly
into the back of her car, and instructed the driver to the florist where the wreath was
waiting to be collected.
A little later, the shiny black car pulled up outside a fancy boutique florist. Amy climbed
out, heels clicking on the pavement as she approached the glass shopfront, the automatic
doors gliding open before her.
"A wreath, for Cain" she said huskily to the shop assistant, who headed out the back to
retreive her order. As Amy waited, a bucket of freshly cut roses caught her eye, reminding
her of a dream she'd once had, long before she had become Cain's mistress. As the assistant
returned, she pointed to them. "I'll have a dozen, six red, and six black."
"Right away ma'am."
Amy left the florist five minutes later, the wreath of white gardenias tucked under one
arm, the bouquet in the other, and a twinkle of inspiration in her eyes.
Amy hurriedly approached the door of the funeral home, not wanting her roses to wilt to
much as she was gone. Yet, the darkness as she entered the building, and the air of sacred
stillness that pervaded it forced her to slow. She cleared her throat and spoke to the desk
clerk. "Gabriel Ramsey" she said, her face schooled to one of respect.
"Right this way."
She was lead to one of the viewing rooms, that was thankfully empty of others besides the
clerk. A haunting irish melody was playing from hidden speakers. As he moved to open the
casket, she stopped him with a firm hand to the wrist. "It's okay."
Amy placed the wreath at the foot of the coffin, along with a little gift card that she had
fiddled with almost to frustration in the car on the way. The front of the miniature
envelope was blank, but within the card (which had a nondescript floral design on the
front) was a message, written in Amy's roundhand script:
On behalf of Jason Cain, and the COW, I offer my deepest condolences at the passing of
Gabriel Ramsey.
A. Madison
After a token moment of quiet contemplation, Amy withdrew from the room, and headed back
out into the sunlight.
Instead of returning to the office, she went home, the bouquet of roses clutched in her hot
little hand. She found a crystal vase to soak them in while she contemplated what exactly
to do with them. It was while reclined on the couch, contemplating the flowers, that Amy
saw the symbolism in her choice of colors. She was the red, the passion, the fire. He was
black, dark, smothering and all-consuming.
Amy thought again of her dream, smiling as she rose from the sofa and took the roses from
the vase. She took them to the kitchen, tearing the petals off five of the red roses and
five of the black ones, and putting them in a bowl. Then she carefully stripped the now-
budless stems, placing the thorns into the bowl with the petals. She carried the bowl to
the bedroom, along with the two remaining roses.
The maid had changed the sheets that morning, to a cream bedspread, which showed up the
color of the petals as Amy sprinkled the contents of the bowl over the bed. She inhaled the
scent of the whole roses, laying the red one on her pillow, and the black one on Cain's.
Amy smiled, satisfied with her work, and undressed, save her collar, panties and spike
heels, and curled up on the chaise lounge by the bedroom window, half-dozing in the
afternoon sun as she waited for Cain to come home to her.
and the love bites that were smattered over her creamy skin. She slipped her black leather
pumps onto her stockinged feet, and cleared her throat as she brushed her hair out and
neatly pinned it back from her face. She breezed out of her apartment...their
apartment, picking up her black leather handbag from the end table. She climbed smoothly
into the back of her car, and instructed the driver to the florist where the wreath was
waiting to be collected.
A little later, the shiny black car pulled up outside a fancy boutique florist. Amy climbed
out, heels clicking on the pavement as she approached the glass shopfront, the automatic
doors gliding open before her.
"A wreath, for Cain" she said huskily to the shop assistant, who headed out the back to
retreive her order. As Amy waited, a bucket of freshly cut roses caught her eye, reminding
her of a dream she'd once had, long before she had become Cain's mistress. As the assistant
returned, she pointed to them. "I'll have a dozen, six red, and six black."
"Right away ma'am."
Amy left the florist five minutes later, the wreath of white gardenias tucked under one
arm, the bouquet in the other, and a twinkle of inspiration in her eyes.
Amy hurriedly approached the door of the funeral home, not wanting her roses to wilt to
much as she was gone. Yet, the darkness as she entered the building, and the air of sacred
stillness that pervaded it forced her to slow. She cleared her throat and spoke to the desk
clerk. "Gabriel Ramsey" she said, her face schooled to one of respect.
"Right this way."
She was lead to one of the viewing rooms, that was thankfully empty of others besides the
clerk. A haunting irish melody was playing from hidden speakers. As he moved to open the
casket, she stopped him with a firm hand to the wrist. "It's okay."
Amy placed the wreath at the foot of the coffin, along with a little gift card that she had
fiddled with almost to frustration in the car on the way. The front of the miniature
envelope was blank, but within the card (which had a nondescript floral design on the
front) was a message, written in Amy's roundhand script:
On behalf of Jason Cain, and the COW, I offer my deepest condolences at the passing of
Gabriel Ramsey.
A. Madison
After a token moment of quiet contemplation, Amy withdrew from the room, and headed back
out into the sunlight.
Instead of returning to the office, she went home, the bouquet of roses clutched in her hot
little hand. She found a crystal vase to soak them in while she contemplated what exactly
to do with them. It was while reclined on the couch, contemplating the flowers, that Amy
saw the symbolism in her choice of colors. She was the red, the passion, the fire. He was
black, dark, smothering and all-consuming.
Amy thought again of her dream, smiling as she rose from the sofa and took the roses from
the vase. She took them to the kitchen, tearing the petals off five of the red roses and
five of the black ones, and putting them in a bowl. Then she carefully stripped the now-
budless stems, placing the thorns into the bowl with the petals. She carried the bowl to
the bedroom, along with the two remaining roses.
The maid had changed the sheets that morning, to a cream bedspread, which showed up the
color of the petals as Amy sprinkled the contents of the bowl over the bed. She inhaled the
scent of the whole roses, laying the red one on her pillow, and the black one on Cain's.
Amy smiled, satisfied with her work, and undressed, save her collar, panties and spike
heels, and curled up on the chaise lounge by the bedroom window, half-dozing in the
afternoon sun as she waited for Cain to come home to her.