(Rebecca's POV)
I pass a flower stand on the corner.
Bucket stand — metal, rust bleeding at the joints — propped on the sidewalk outside a grocery store that isn't open yet. A woman in an apron setting it up. Tulips. Lilies. Something purple I don't know the name of.
I stop.
I've never bought myself flowers.
Sean sent them once. Early on — first year, maybe second. White. Expensive. Cellophane, ribbon, a card that said nothing because Alexander bought them. I put them in a vase and they died in four days. He never sent them again.
I look at the tulips. Yellow. $6. Petals closed — tight little fists, like they haven't decided if it's worth opening yet.
I buy them.
The woman wraps them in brown paper. I carry them home. Seven a.m., suburban street, yellow tulips in my hand like a fla
