This blue rose was nothing incredible, it was just covered with a layer of paint. No matter, the symbolism took precedence! Blue roses don’t naturally grow. Below the coloured and cracked layer its true identity was camouflaged, born of a scarlet red complexion. It was perfect, since Frank loved this woman. He loved her with a love so absurd, just as insane as this allusive and ephemeral rose. Frank wondered how he could have imagined, for even a second, building a serious relationship with a girl of only twenty years. Yes, because Svetlana was well and truly still a girl; a little capricious, indecisive, unstable girl who was also undoubtedly a bit selfish. It was now too late. The hurt had taken hold of him, of her; of them. Only lack, suffering, would hold their arms to them; especially
