They warned me not to marry him. At first, it was by the omission of words. My praise was met with silence and awkward glances away as they avoided making eye contact with me.
Time continued, as it tends to do. As my relationship with Evgeni became more serious, so did my friends and family. They finally found words, harsh ones.
“He’s not right for you, Daisy.” Or, “His age doesn’t bother me as much as all of his morbid fascinations.”
Between you and me, those “morbid fascinations” were what drew me to him. There’s a big Dutch painting above his desk. It’s the one with that skull and a wine glass. Behind it, the walls of his study are painted black. I like black.
I like ruffling the feathers of my loved ones. (Is that a “morbid fascination”?)
I don’t love Evgeni. I don’t even like him. He’s embarrassingly cliche. His poetry about love and death rivals my middle school diary. He calls me “Rose” because it is a more “beautiful and complex” flower than a daisy.
He says I’m the only one he could ever trust. He’s worried that everyone else wants to steal his poetry and poison his tea.
Every day he gives me a black rose. He says he’s drawn to darkness.
Well, he was drawn to me.
He knows nothing of darkness, and he certainly doesn’t know me. His black Rose.
No one does.
Today I’m feeling discontent, and a little bored.
I poison his tea.
