Shooting Roses

He slowly wakes up. Somewhere the sun is setting. The evening light drags itself through the blinds before dying. He walks to the bathroom zigzagging about. The cold water kills his laziness. Once showered, he dresses in a dark green apron and starts cooking. Exotic fruit salad. Vegetarian lasagna. Crêpes. Colors. Smells. He sets a lonely table. An aromatic candle. A bottle of exquisite red wine. He goes back to his bedroom. He dresses in a trendy dark suit, fancy and elegant. Back in the living room, he turns on his iPod speaker station. Nostalgic quiet jazz floods the room. Seduced by the music, he sits down and enjoys. A pleasure for the senses. Once finished he looks down. Sadness is back. A grimace precedes the invisible crying. His hope wrinkles. Fire. The drive is gone. Apathy. He walks towards the night table, opens the only drawer and strangled his future. In front of the huge living room window he draws a resigned smile before opening the blinds. Sprinkled darkness. The lake. Two moons. Staring at the fake one while rising his arm and opening his mouth and pulling the trigger and listening to the deafening racket and closing his eyes and collapsing. Red.

He suddenly wakes up. Agitated, he runs towards his walk-in closet and looks for a suit he had never bought. There it is. Anxious, he runs to the kitchen and opens the black refrigerator looking for the ingredients of a meal he had never planned. There they are. Scared, he runs back to his bed and stands still in front of the night table. The tears he cries. He opens the only drawer. It is not empty. Inside there is. There is a rose. From who?

Only then he realizes he is trying to remember something that has not yet happened.