What he brought her was sweet stems of honeysuckle and thorny roses wrapped partially in a wide satin ribbon. It was so out of the blue.

She’d just come from the shower, her hair all turbaned up, a thick terry robe wrapped around her body when she heard the doorbell ring. No one good rings the doorbell at 7 a.m. Her chest clinched. Who? Wha?.

She cracked open the front door—as far as the security chain would allow—and let out a sigh of relief. It was just a kid from the neighborhood—15? 18? He was tall, full bodied but in that loose way of children. He had soft brown eyes draped in thick black lashes. His eyes were cast down, a bashful blush swimming across his face. Without looking up he extended the bundle of flowers towards her.

For her? What the heck? Why was her bringing her flowers?

He cocked his head a bit, like a puppyy with a question and thrust the bundle forward again, urging her to take it.

When she didn’t slip the chain from the door, and step out to take them. He took a step forward and laid the bundle on the step, looked up briefly at her, and then turned and ran in a gangly lope, looking over his shoulder and grinning.

She watched until he turned at the corner and was out of sight.Then she slipped the chain, opened the door and picked up the bundle.

Honeysuckle and roses. Such a delightful comingling of beauty. Such an aromatic blend. Who could have thought of such a combination. Yet he had. It felt intimate.

She brought them into the kitchen and prepared a vase, gently unwrapping the ribbon. She saw that he had clipped the thorns from the lower stems. These were not hot house roses. They were someone’s, his perhaps, tended beauties.

She sat them on a low table in the living room where the beauty and fragrance could fully embrace her.

It was crowded at Ketchums. She and her friend, Freya had meant to get out early for lunch but Edgar, the new manager, had droned on so long at the team meeting that here they were waiting for a lunch table at Ketchums. They’d be late getting back and Edgar was sure to make a big deal about it.

Ordering something quick seemed prudent. So both she and Freya ordered a cold sandwich and the soup of the day: Squash Blossom Soup. What ever that was—they both laughed. They often had a glass of wine with lunch, but not today. No need to give Edgar more fuel. While they waited for their food, she told Freya about the flowers.

“So this dude, that you don’t even know rings your doorbell at 7 a.m. Doesn’t say a bloody word and pushes backyard flowers at you?” Freya said in disbelief. Her extra large earrings boobed frantically beneath her dark brown boycut. Freya was more exotic than pretty. Her intensity was electric. “Creepy…. Dang girl, that’s just flat out creepy? Do you have outside cameras?”

“It wasn’t creepy , exactly,” she said, dipping the corner of her paper napkin into the water glass and dapping the soup stain from her cardigan. “It was weird. For sure. But I didn’t get a creepy vibe, and besides he didn’t hang around.’

“Trust me,” Freya said, her mouth full of food. She swallowed and then gestured with her sandwich. “How does this random dude know about your connection to honeysuckle and roses? Tell me again that that isn’t creepy.”

“Wait,” she said stiffening, leaning forward and slapping the table with her hand, “how do _you_ know about honeysuckle and roses?” Her heart was pounding in her ears. That was her secret. Nobody knows. Nobody could know. The kid wasn’t random, not really. He was a neighborhood kid. She’d seen him around. The flowers, just somethings he cut from his yard. A beautiful coincidence from the Universe. That’s what she’d thought. Until now. Until Freya.

“You told me once. That time we went to see Maroon Five and got wasted in a motel room.”

The air around Freya prickled. Dishes clanked from nearby tables. The riot of surrounding conversations circled and hovered.

“I don’t remember that.” She said and felt deflated, diminished. “The concert, yeah. But after…I don’t…”

The world stood still. it felt as though a boulder had landed smack in the middle of their table. They could no longer see each other. What words were said bounced back unacknowledged.

She was uneasy in her bed that night. She felt vulnerable and exposed. The darkness that she had always trusted seemed risky and devious. _He knows_. It whispered. Pinned as she was to the bed and the night, she could not argue. He knew and would always know. Freya knew.

She would never be safe again. She had tilted out of favor.