Thomas Kearnes

T h o m a s   K e a r n e s

next

Imitation of Life

I still have the fake yellow rose you bought me. It was cheap and awful. You presented it from the doorway our first weekend together. You apologized for it. The rose was wrapped in clear plastic. Underneath, imitation lace wound around the stem. It’s nothing, you said. I kissed you as the door stood open. Any neighbor might happen upon two young men kissing on my front porch. You were often more inhibited. The ferocity of my emotions disturbed you. Four years later, your fake rose stays pinned to my wall. I’ve let many men inside my home since you slammed my door that final time, but none have asked about it. If one does, I will tell him this story. I will tell him it’s my first flower from a boy. I will tell him it is not real, so it cannot die.