I watched as he pulled into your driveway; brushed his hair back, put out his cigarette. He checked his look in the mirror. Stretched his mouth out, picked his teeth.

He had roses. Red. The kind you give lovers, carried them in his left hand. A bottle of wine was held in the other. Some kind of chianti with the basket around it. After drinking, it would be made into a candle holder with wax dripping down. Something cliché like that.

His knock on your door was soft. Almost indecisive. Did he want to be there? He knocked again. This time, it was a little harder, put the wine down, and made one more sweep through his gray hair.

And then, you opened the door.