He came back one day carrying a handful of red roses in his left hand, a meek smile on his face. She was healthy now sitting on the plushy leather couch one Sunday, cheeks as rosey as a ripe apple, brilliant blue eyes with a sparkle, and face set in a frown. He bought the roses from a cashier at the closest grocery store when he heard she was healthy. The cashier he bought them from was holding back tears as she slowly slid his credit card across the counter. The cashier's broken heart was smashed by a boyfriend she had less then a week by phone. The boyfriend could care less about the girl, he called in the middle of half time over an insurance commercial. The writer of the insurance commercial was struck with a wave of genius one night while eating a beef taco and wrote his first novel with greasy fingers. The publisher of the insurance man's story read his novel while on a plane to his honeymoon. His fiancé was getting married for the second time, she believed her life to be a complete failure accept for her lovely son; who, back at home, was carrying a handful of roses. But the girl he was standing beforth was shaking her head, he wasn't there for her in her time of need so she wouldn't be there for him. He walked away, for the last time, leaving her red roses on the kitchen table. Trying not to turn around, jacket across his back.