Delilah Quinton, barely 20 years old, rose at six, just like every other day. Her thin, tan legs bounced down the steps, as she simultaneously pulled her sweeping brown hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She grabbed her gloves from the glossy hall table. Opening the white french doors out onto the patio, the early morning sunlight filled the room and banished all her thoughts of sleepiness away. “My roses are so beautiful this time of year,” She thought tenderly. The only thing that Delilah could not live without, tending to her roses had become an obsession. She leaned forward carefully, analyzing the many roses with her thoughtful, intuitive, green eyes. If there were any weeds or drooping petals in her garden, she would find them. There. Her smooth, gloved hands, delicately caressed the roses, before she slowly pinched the one browning petal from the blossoming bud. When all was complete, she strolled down the length of the garden to fetch the rusting green watering can. It had belonged to Ms. Marriott, the next door neighbor, until she had gotten to old to continue using it. She hunched over to water the roots of each plant, all the while talking to them in hushed voices.

“I wonder what kind of rose Ms. Marriott would like today. She favors white. Maybe I’ll bring her a white rose today.”

Her decision made, she softly snipped two white roses from the vast selection of plants, then quietly headed inside. Careful not to awake her sleeping cat, she filled his bowl with crunchy’s, put away her canvas gloves, and grabbed a bright red apple from the wooden bowl. She wrapped Marriott’s rose in crinkly tissue paper, placing it on the hall table. Upstairs, she chose a floral dress and a white jacket to wear for the day. She polished off the look with long strands of necklaces. Tucking the other white rose behind her ear, she grabbed Ms. Marriott’s gift and her white pocketbook, and bounded out the door.

Delilah paraded down the street and towards the door of Ms. Marriott, humming to herself. Grabbing the heavy brass knocker, she struck the chipping red door 3 times, making sure it was loud enough to hear, but wasn’t too loud.

“Why hello dear.” Marriott said, squinting through her thin reading glasses. Her gaze wandered to the paper wrapped rose. “What do we have here?”

“Just a little gift from my garden. I know how much you love white roses, so I thought you should have it.” A sweet smile escaped her glossy lips.

“Oh thank you! They are my favorite. Why don’t you come inside and have tea?” A deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead.

“Not today Ms. Marriott, I have to get to class. But we’ll have tea soon.”

“Call me Marriott, deary. Thank you so much for the beautiful rose. I can tell you put a lot of work into that garden. It makes me happy to see someone so involved with roses. You be careful now.”

“Bye Ms. Marriott.” She shot off another smile, before disappearing from Ms. Marriott’s view, and walked towards campus, the other white rose still tucked behind her ear.