EROS
I'm still feeling uneasy about the vase. That shouldn't come as a shock to me. Days have passed, and it's embedded in my mind like a splinter that won't come out. I reassured myself that I was justified—she had no right to touch it, no right to fill it with roses as if she owned the place, as if she understood the significance of what that vase held.
Yet, every time I replay the scene, I don't focus on the vase. Her face comes rushing back to me, how her expression changed, how her shoulders slumped. The way she softly said, I didn't mean to upset you, before quietly putting everything back as if she had shattered something beyond repair.
I've buried worse memories than this one. It shouldn't be clinging to me. Yet, it refuses to let go.
I push away from my desk, the chair rolling
