There is something sad and desperate in cut flowers, thinks Clarissa. Tulips in lingering shades of spring red and gold unfurl at her fingertips. Pink and mauve and a hummingbird's print of helter-skelter orange flicker along a crescent nail. Clarissa brings the knife down upon them. It is important to cut them so, with the knife slicing through the green stalks at a dignified slant; it is important because they will last longer if cut this way. And the water must be warm- not hot, nor cold, but warm. A tepid variation of her morning tea, the water left to sun itself in the light of a glass-paned window. And tulips, once having left the soil, will quickly wither and wilt. One must tend to them carefully, making sure not to touch their waxy cups when prompting them to life.

Bruising is always such a nuisance.

Clarissa fans the blossoms out with a turn of the index finger, lets a nail glide over one smooth cheek. The tulips of the country are so much more sturdier, not like these frail creatures bathed in hot-house love. Yet they're tulips just the same. And Clarissa smiles.

She will put them on the little end-table in the corner, where the sun peeks through the drapes and plays with the finicky gloss of polished wood.

"Lovely flowers there, Clarissa dear," someone will say later. "Of the crocus family, I presume?"

"Tulips. Of the tulip family," she will correct (she corrects that which is important to her), laughter mixing with the bubbles of champagne, ringing with the sound of her own name: Clarissa, issa, issa, is.

"Oh, those country buds- how fond you are of them! But they do make a pretty picture in your mother's sea-glass vase. Orderly and precise, like sentinels perked for an hour of stiff attention."

...and she will play with her glass, tug at the sleeve of her gown, frown away; now away again.

"Yes. I've thought so too."