aka Love means never having to say you are sorry.

While I've labelled this the second part, it probably accounts for all the remaining parts to the story. Same shit, different day.

I've discovered that there are an awful lot of people out there who think they can buy their way out of anything. Expressing their emotions, accounting for their behaviour, admitting they were wrong... the list goes on.

This story begins many, many years ago. I was in my first longish term relationship. We were learning as we went along, bumbling from one issue to another. The ex had rapidly learned that receiving things made me all mushy. Now before you write me off as a materialistic bitch (or a typical bloody Taurus in VeryModern's case), when I say receive things, I mean anything. A poem, a surprise phone call, a daisy you stole from the neighbour's garden. Something that says, "Hey, I thought of you today, so I did this for you."

Gets me every time.

The problem is the ex got things a little backwards.

We argued like any other couple. Nothing violent, just the usual tiffs. I would sometimes provoke him, just because I like a good dust clearing every now and again and he tended to let me walk all over him most of the time.

There was just one problem.

He had a real problem admitting when he was wrong.

Not that he was wrong all of the time. But when he was, he couldn't seem to admit it. Or apologise.

One day, after a particularly heated discussion, a dozen roses arrived for me. Not long stemmed, not boxed, not even red. No card. Just a dozen roses.

I knew who they were from and I knew why.

I forgave him that once and let it drop.

Big mistake.

Like Pavlov's dogs, he heard bells ringing.

The next time we had a difference of opinion and he was in the wrong, another dozen showed up the following day.

Pink, yellow, white, mixed, fragranced, unfragranced. You name it, I received it.

It began to get tiresome.

The next time the florist visited, I rang as soon as they arrived.

"Did you get the flowers?" he asked, sheepishly.

"I was expecting them," I snarled.

No roses arrived the following day.

White Roses--Deborah Conway

You weren’t the first to send me red roses
And you weren’t the first to give me away
I’m not the only one to have my fingers burned
But that was a one-way conversation and you got the final word.

Forget-me-nots forgotten
White roses
Regrets and promises collide
I’m still flying
A flag for you
A blue heart, red eyes and white roses

It's true, lovers swap red roses
But white ones from you spell the end of everything fine
Yellow roses are for jealousy but you
Don't send me them, you send the ones that mean we're through

Chorus

You weren't to know that something was making me blue
Keeping all the sunshine away
You said "Forever" and I took you at your word
White roses make a lie of everything I've heard

Chorus