He sat under the tree, thinking about his Rose. It was spring and Rose loved spring. She loved sitting by the lake and admiring the delicate butterflies as they danced around the flowers, some camouflaging, some beautifying the flowers even more. As the sun rays descended on the lake water, it looked like diamonds were flickered into the lake to make the water appear ever more precious than before.

He sat there, wondering why isn’t Rose here. Where is she? She would never give up spring noons for anything in the world. He moved a little closer to the lake. He loved doing everything Rose ever taught him. Looking at their own reflections in the water, making funny faces, letting their bare feet under the water to feel the cool water run over their skin. She taught him to love. She had become his heroin.

Today he was tired. Very tired. He looked into the water. And he saw her reflection. He turned around and she wasn’t there. My mind is playing wild games, he thought and settled back under the tree waiting for his love, his world, his everything.

His Rose.

Slowly he dozed off as the tiredness took the best of him and even so he kept thinking and dreaming about Rose. He loved how she would get up every morning and sit by the window sill, covered in satin sheet. Her silky smooth skin would always shame the smoothness of the satin. He loved getting up to look at her bask the morning rays as the sun made her skin shine and thought to himself what good he ever did to deserve her.

They always pretended to be one of those couples who would finish each others’ sentences. Rose was good at it. In fact, marvelous. However, he never succeeded. His desperate attempts always made their conversations awkward.

As she said “hey lets leave the party. It’s boring anyway. Let’s go to that ice cream parlor, it’s literally empty now and we can have”

“Sex!” he exclaimed. “No! I was talking about having the super sunday which is never available ’cause of the crowd” She annexed. He was just pathetic at it. Finally one day he gave up trying. Reading minds or even guessing was not his forte.

She loved him. He always wondered why. She was perfect. The perfect girlfriend, the perfect wife, the perfect worker and he, well he was working. She supported him. His paintings. His slow success. It would scare him. He never knew what was it that made rose love him. She joked “you are good in bed that’s why”.

He kept thinking about Rose, as he finally lapsed into deep sleep while the soft, moist grass beneath him pillowed his body and started relaxing his mind. But his mind was far from being relaxed. Until recently, he started getting nightmares. Rose cheating on him. Rose leaving him. For him, it was worse than death. He often woke up to sweaty bed sheets and clothes and wondered what he could do to make it go away. He would watch Rose sleeping next to him, soft and angel-like and peaceful and he would calm himself back to sleep.

Every evening he would get back home a little early to make dinner for Rose. She loved coming home to the sweet aroma of his food and loved him even more. This evening was special. He was going to make churros and vodka lime, her favorite. He wanted to surprise her. His painting was selected for national exhibition. As he entered into the house, he could hear noises from their bedroom. He hated it when their cat would jump into their bed and leave it’s fur all over it.

He moved hurriedly as he was in no mood to change sheets at this hour. He had a specialty to make. Opening the door, to his horror, he saw rose, half-clothed up close in arms with a man he did not care to know about. She was flushed and embarrassed and tried to reason with him. He wasn’t interested. What was her justification anyway? He did not care to know.

He could feel life leave his body. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t. The tears won’t roll down. He started hyperventilating and left home.

He expected to come back to an empty house the next morning. But there she was, standing on the kitchen counter beautiful as ever, trying to look guilt ridden and still waiting. Why? To justify herself? He could feel the pang of anger run through every vein and nerve of his body. He started shivering. He needed to hold her. Hug her. One last time. He forgave her. But his heart was scarred and nothing could change that. He wanted to stay at this moment holding her close and not move.

Thinking that he hugged her tighter and drove the knife and stabbed her from behind. Once, twice,….. fifteen times. He watched her as she lay down still and lifeless, the blood seeping through her yellow sundress and trickling down her honeymilk skin. He cried. He finally cried and cried till his tears ran dry.

A sudden thud by a walnut falling from the tree on his head woke him up. He was sweaty once again. This was worse than all the nightmares so far. He could not think of himself doing something so heinous to the reason and love of his life. He got up and moved towards the lake. He saw a reflection of Rose. She is finally here. Her honeymilk skin glistening under the sun and shaming the diamonds in the water.

He watched as the water washed away the blood spoiling her smooth skin.

He did it. What he never thought he was capable of.

It was real after all. Very real.

He untied the rope tied to Rose’s feet permitting the water to take her away. He wasn’t planning on leaving her. He loved her.

“I love you, my Rose.”

And pulled the trigger to the gun he held at his temple.