Rose Daughter – Part I

They first met at a harpsichord concert. He liked Bach; she sniffed and spoke of Mozart, the early Mozart. At lunch the following Tuesday, he said “tomato” and she, “tomahto”.
     They married despite all that but there were no children. He sighed privately. She wept once, openly. Then they rallied, designing a beautiful little rose garden behind their Morningside Heights brownstone. White roses only, she said, they’ll glow at night. He misted the bushes lightly; she arranged heavy bouquets.
     At cocktail parties, she took to declaring that the roses were really like children to them. He, to displaying the scratches.

Part II is here.
Image: A black-and-white version of Takashi Hososhima's.