We are the red roses whose petals you plucked with all the glee of a bully separating spiders from their legs, tossed with all the frenzy of a deranged flower girl in the foyer, up the stairs, down the hallway, over the threshold into the bedroom, and onto the bed amid its satiny throw pillows. We are embarrassed at the cliche, wish we could duck our heads like morning glories and apologize to your wife that you remembered your anniversary this way.

We are the red roses who would have preferred a vase. She is the wife who prefers tulips.