Patrick unlocks their door, fumble-fingered. He walks in, sets down his heavy briefcase, listens for and hears Rosa in the bedroom, chattering. He has time, and so takes his paper-wrapped package into the kitchen. There he pokes and prods, pulls out a few dead leaves, a malformed bud, and shifts until the dark purple roses bloom like bruises from the green heart of ferns. Only then does he take them to her, walks in the bedroom door and sees her there, lying sprawled on their bed with one hand between her thighs, in the dark robe he bought her for their anniversary, the dark silk robe caressing her skin, her hair loose for once and shockingly bright against it, her fingers slipping against the silk, against her skin. She does not see him at first -- he slipped off his shoes as he entered, he has learned to move on cat feet. Rosa purrs into the phone for an endless moment, and then looks up, sees him, falls silent. He walks into the room. He offers the flowers. She mouths the words, "Thank you." She nods towards the kitchen, and he nods in return. Patrick walks out of the room, closing the door behind him, and steps into the kitchen. He pulls down a vase and prepares the fragile blooms for cutting. He carefully does not hear what noises leak through the edges of the door.