I wasn’t thinking about how crowded Walmart would be tonight, when I went to get groceries. I realized soon enough, of course. Last minute trawlers for Valentines loomed at every turn, as well as all the accoutrements that go with the holiday.

As I carefully made my way past a large table of flower arrangements, I admired various colors of roses. One bouquet in particular caught my eye.
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These roses were almost completely white, except for many of the petals that were barely tinged with a pinkish crimson. Normally, I would admire and walk on, but these roses were special. To me. Or perhaps more accurately to my muse.

I recently wrote a short story set in Paris. Near the end I wrote in a single white rose with crimson tinged petals, to symbolize the purity and barely blooming passion of the couple at its heart. I didn’t remember seeing roses exactly like that and could only hope they really exist.
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Thrilled to have stumbled across such lovely proof, I managed to avoid the jostling elbows of romantic souls seeking the perfect symbol of their love, as I pulled out my phone to take some pictures.
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So some lucky lady will end up with a pretty bouquet, never suspecting that someone else treasures pictures of her imaginary Paris rose.

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