Tonight I had planned to celebrate. Alas, you've spoiled my best intentions. You could not leave behind your work. You brought your troubles home. You would not give me your attention. You spoke to me unkind. You pouted, you fussed, you yelled. I treated you to dinner, you treated me with scorn. I brought you roses, you brought me thorns.
Those roses, so odorous and pink, I gave in tribute to your skin. In hindsight, a bouquet of deeper red would better couple with what's to come. For some couples, the causticity would fester and the flowers wilt. Not us. Within the hour, your bouquet will stand, sated and nourished, given what it needs.
You know what this hour brings. You've prepared your body. You now prepare your mind. Yes, think about what's to occur. Think through your remorse. Think about your pettiness, your impertinence. You know what you deserve. You don't doubt my authority, no more than you doubt my love. You will ask, and I will give again.
You've been here many times before. Yet once again. Here. Bare. Rueful. Anxious. You want it to be over, but not to start. I understand why you hesitate. You know what that drawer contains. You could have had roses, instead you get all that lies beneath.