Smelling the Roses

It was 10:04 p.m. on December 28th, and I was watching rabbits copulate on my computer screen. When my husband, Robert, hadn’t made it home for dinner (again), I threw our dinner, plates and all, into the garbage. Everything except for the Pinot Noir that had been chilling in the refrigerator. I started out keeping it classy, swirling my wine in its bell shaped glass, but eventually it just became easier to take an occasional swig out of the bottle.

And these rabbits! Goodness gracious, they meant business. Even Newton, my no-nonsense feline, paused mid-wash to gaze at the spectacle on the screen.

I hadn’t sat down intending to search for rabbits. Quite to the contrary, I had suddenly decided to write our family newsletter for the new year. Robert had more education, but I had always had a way with words so producing a respectable, yet witty newsletter always fell to me. This year was going to be something special!

I was looking for an appropriate picture to include in the section where I informed our soon-to-be titillated audience I was quite sure my husband was having an affair. I thought it might be with his assistant Sharon, who to be truthful, looked a bit like a rabbit with her scrunchy nose and front teeth that were a hair (a hare!) too big. I decided to leave the specifics out, though, as I couldn’t confirm it was her. But I was thinking about Sharon, and Sharon with my husband, and Sharon looking like a rabbit, and the two of them possibly doing it like rabbits. . . Well, hence the gyrating images on my screen. I prayed Robert would throw his hip out.

Alas, a video would not work for a newsletter. I could link it. That, however, would possibly create a garbled look for the newsletter. No, better to stay away from links.

I found a simple picture of two rabbits engaged in the act instead. Newton, who had clearly lost interest, curled into a ball and flicked his tail over his head.

I affixed a caption right below the image: Working the night shift! My audacity struck me as funny, but then I slumped back in the chair. I’d have some major editing to do tomorrow, but at least the formatting was in place.

I changed gears for a moment, pulling up my email, feeling my stomach churn a bit as I read the latest platitude from my mom: “Stop and smell the roses!” Adding, before she signed off: “I think Erin would have liked that idea, don’t you, Gwen? After all, roses were her favorite.”

Did I mention that my sister, my big sister, had died recently? Two months ago. Not in a special way. Not in a way that gave us time to say a meaningful goodbye. Erin died in a car accident on her way to the store. For milk. I knew because I had been on the phone with her ten minutes before it happened.

I pushed myself up from the chair, stumbled a bit, but not enough to raise Newton’s interest. I’d do some laundry. Something productive. I gathered up a small load and trekked to the laundry room.

Roses. I didn’t want to smell any roses. Erin’s favorite flower had invaded the room where her funeral was held. No matter where I sat, some type of rose (who knew there were so many!) bent toward me. Due to the vast amount, I’d had to bring some back to my house, letting them sit for a day before I threw them in the trash (which I immediately hauled out to the curb), rinsed out the vases, and donated them to Goodwill.

Thinking of roses was making me smell them now, a sickly sweet smell that caused my eyes to fill and my stomach to clench. I closed my eyes and made myself focus on happy somethings: Newton when the neighbor’s kitten had ventured over and he pinned the little guy to the ground with just a paw to his head, Newton sprawling on his back in the sunshine, Newton and his anytime, big kitty yawns. Oh, to have the complete unselfconsciousness of a cat.

I opened my eyes. The smell was still there. I hadn’t conjured it. I sniffed the load I still held. Not my socks that were on top, that was for sure. But one of Robert’s shirts was right underneath it. I raised it and inhaled deeply. Roses. Perfume. I didn’t wear perfume that smelled like roses, and I never would. Especially not now. It had to be Sharon’s.

I dropped the load, letting it fall where it may, and headed back to the computer, banging my hip on the doorway. I’d examine the damage later.

I fell into my seat. Newton graced me with an anytime, big kitty yawn.

I flicked back to the newsletter, pulled up the group I had created to send it to, deleted my mother from the group, and hit SEND.

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When I woke up, my mouth cottony and my hip clearly bruised, I found Robert sitting on the edge of the bed with a cup of coffee.

“You look like you might need this. Got your letter last night, by the way. As did most of my work associates, our friends, neighbors. Your mother, too, I’m assuming?”

I raised my eyebrows smugly, then quickly dropped them. Not good for the searing headache. “I deleted her right before I sent it.”

“Good. I’m not having an affair.”

“Right.”

“I’m not.”

“The scent of roses wafting up from your shirt last night makes me think differently.” Wafting, that was a good one, I thought. Even with a hangover, I was still a wordsmith.

“Sharon was helping me plan your birthday party. With everything this year, I wanted you to have something special. It’s taken quite a bit of manpower.” He leaned forward to kiss my forehead.

“The perfume?” I couldn’t quite let it go yet.

“She must bathe in it, and I guess there were times we were sitting pretty closely together. You know, looking over things.” He shrugged. “I might have permanent nasal damage. But it was worth it to have everything just the way it should be for you.” He smiled. I smiled back. “Your party is tonight.”

“Hand over the coffee.” I froze. “What about the newsletter?”

“I’ve already fixed it. I sent a message back to the group saying, as best we can figure, one of your students somehow got your password and was trying to have a little fun. I doubt anyone will give it a second thought.”

This was one of the reasons I had married Robert. He always knew just what to say.

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I did feel special walking into the party that night. That morning, while Robert got ready for work, I downed the cup of coffee he had brought me, napped for another two hours, dragged myself out of bed to tend to Newton, ate some toast, and took a shower. By 5:00, I felt somewhat human. When I stepped into the red satin dress Robert had bought for me, the last dredges of the hangover were washed away.

Most of our personal friends were there, along with several work friends: some of my fellow teachers and a few from Robert’s law firm. Sharon was there, and I chastised myself for my drunken, thoughtless behavior and once again felt a sense of relief that Robert had rescued me from mortification.

“Sharon!” I waved to her as I approached. “I’m so happy to see you. Thanks so much for helping plan things for tonight.”

“I was happy to help, Gwen!” She smiled. Then paused.

Please don’t mention the newsletter, I thought. She didn’t. Merciful woman, that Sharon. Robert was lucky to have such an assistant. I so regretted the nose and teeth thoughts that had plagued my mind just the night before.

“I know Robert has been covered up with that newest case, so he just handed me everything and said ‘Make it happen!’ It feels like I haven’t even seen him in forever!” She smiled, as if she had just delivered a fabulous piece of news.

I remembered the strong scent of roses. The wafting scent of roses. And then my mouth started moving. “Oh, Sharon. One more quick thing. That lovely scented rose perfume you wear. Where in the world do you find such a delicious scent?”

Sharon eyebrows drew together. “Oh gosh, Gwen. I can’t wear perfume. Gives me a nauseating headache. Roses would probably bring on a migraine. You must have me confused with someone else.”