The petal drifts to the cold stone floor, its landing cushioned by its brothers and sisters already discarded as the game creeps towards its climax. The ending changes with each petal. She loves me. She loves me not. She lives. She dies.
He can hear her move around in the bathroom upstairs. Can hear the floorboards creak under her step. The pipes rattle and fizz to life as she turns on the taps over the sink.
She thinks it has been a good night. He’s sure of it. He has cooked them dinner of fillet steak, served with potatoes dauphinoise, green beans and seared asparagus. He thanks God for M&S and their idiot-proof ready-prepared dishes. He’d opened a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He doesn’t consider himself a wine connoisseur, but it had cost more than £20 so it must be a good one. It is more than she deserves, but he has to play the game properly.
The goal, he knows, is fear. And fear is always most pronounced when it comes as a surprise. When it comes at a moment when his pawn is relaxed. Happy. Hopeful.
There is no rush like seeing realisation dawn on the face of his prey. When they realise they aren’t invincible. That they aren’t as safe as they thought they were.
But it all depends on the petals. Once he sets the rules, he abides by them. He plucks one more petal, tries not to guess how many more are left. Patience, he thinks. The moment is sweeter for the wait.
A floorboard creaks overhead and his eyes glance upwards. She has been gone a while now and he’s starting to get antsy. The adrenaline is already pumping in his veins, making him jittery. The fight-or-flight reflex is primed and ready to go. He thinks, if the petals dictate it, it will be a fight this time. She strikes him as a fighter.
The pipes stop rattling and if he’s not sure, and if he listens really intently, he thinks he might hear her talk. It throws him for a moment until he looks across at the empty chair opposite him. The bag that she had hung on the back of it – the bag which contains her phone. No. No, she isn’t supposed to do that. That breaks the rules. When they are together, he expects her full attention. It’s a matter of manners. Of respect.
His hand tightens around the stem of the rose, the thorns piercing his skin. There are three petals left. He knows what way this would have fallen for her. But she broke the rules. She has brought this on herself. He has no choice.
Getting up, he walks across the room to the small wooden box on his bookshelves. He takes out a tablet, breaks it in half and pours the powder into the remains of her glass of expensive wine. He stirs it around with his finger as he hears the bathroom door open and her footsteps on the stairs, then he plasters a smile on his face.