Smudge

He gave her flowers...cut flowers, though she'd told him a thousand times she preferred live ones. The flowers were a day or so past their prime, which meant they'd die soon. He never noticed things like that. She smiled anyway and asked him to trim the stems just a bit. Maybe she could keep them alive for a while.

From the cupboard above the refrigerator she got her mother's favorite vase. Why her mother had beeen so fond of that vase was a mystery to her; it was pretty enough in shape, but there was a visible imperfection in the glass at the neck. Still, it was the vase she always used for cut flowers. Although it wasn't really dusty, she carefully rinsed it, wiped it clean, and tied a ribbon around the neck to disguise the flaw. These things matter.

He'd used her chef's knife to trim the stems. What was he thinking? And the trimming was altogether wrong; she had to do it all over again with a proper pair of gardening shears. Afterwards, she asked him to put the flowers on the dining room table where they could catch the evening sun, and she turned to wash the knife and scissors. It's the thought that counts, she told herself, so she was prepared to overlook his mistakes.

She stepped into the dining room, still drying the chef's knife, to see her soon-to-die flowers and to thank him for trying. The sun sliced through the window, bathing the table in a lovely golden light. But the flowers weren't there. He'd put her mother's favorite vase on top of the television, in the darkest corner of the living room. And there was a big smudgy thumbprint on the glass.

She stopped drying the chef's knife. There is only so much a woman can stand.