Interpolate

A vase of flowers on the table. She walked in and saw them. Pink roses, her favorite. She liked their delicacy, their softness, their aroma. They were surrounded by a wreath of baby breath, like a halo. She wondered how long it had taken him to arrange.

However long -- fifteen minutes, an hour, six days -- nothing would have been enough. He could not sufficiently make up for his betrayal. Not with flowers, or chocolate, or groveling, or anything. The only thing he could do to make her feel better was to have never done what he did, and that, certainly, was impossible. As impossible as her forgiveness now. He had destroyed her love, her faith, and worst of all, her self-confidence.

She went to the kitchen. She brought back a knife. She hacked off every rose blossom. Then she stuck the knife in the middle of what had been a beautiful bouquet, and she walked out of the house again. She would find someplace else to sleep that night.