This is from my Valentine's bouquet. My apartment is always hot, so they opened quickly, spreading the scent through my home.
It was raining and the scent of roses hung heavy on the air. She liked old roses best, they had the best perfume, but they didn't last as long as the kind you could buy in the florist shop. To make up for their short life, she had bushes and bushes by the back door, along the house and the fence behind. And every spring, into the summer, she cut bouquets for the house. And the scent of roses mingled with the scent of rain.
Across from my brother's house are the Iris Gardens. Every June, hundreds of flowers bloom and dozens of photographers, artists, kids and dogs come to gape. The flowers are there to attract insects and fool them into playing matchmaker - moving pollen from one bloom to another.
The last thing she needed was another distraction. Already the coffee smelled burned and she hadn’t pushed the lever on the toaster down.
But the morning sang, cool and damp with dew, and he sat in the center of her garden, chewing. She should run after him, flailing her arms. Mine! Mine!
The rabbit finished a mouthful of parsley, then reached down and cut off another curly leaf. The woman in the window turned away, but he hardly noticed. He had his own breakfast to deal with.