Fountain

[Judy Thompson]

She felt her skin growing warmer in a way she hadn't felt in  months: heat flowed up from her belly, across her breasts and into her cheeks, and she knew again the pleasure of that sexual flush, knew she was   young, beautiful, and desirable: the man watching her reflected that, and he smiled a slow sleepy smile of  want;  No hurry, it said,  We have plenty of time.

But in the back of her mind a small rough voice was whispering, "what happens when the lights dim, what happens when the music stops, and the magic finally wears off?"

In the morning she woke from dreams that were as much memories as dreams, her joints stiff with an old familiarity;  the last thing she remembered was his voice, saying, "oh my GOD" and then silence: he was gone, the pillow cool, and there was a note which she threw away unread. 

 

 Later that day she opened the door to the hall and found a bouquet of roses with his signature on the card: the stems were brittle, the pink flowers had turned brick-colored, the leaves were blackened with age.

She brought them in, and poured the remains of the potion  in the vase;  in less than a minute or so the flowers began to glow pink again, the petals softened, the leaves grew green and supple.

 

When they found her dessicated remains  two weeks later, the flowers, in a dry vase, were still pink and healthy.

[Judy Thompson]

Other, you're funny.  Thank you.  Now Ill never see roses without thinking maybe, maybe I should eat them.  You never know.

Mr. L, thank you. As always, generosity itself.

 

[Ron. Lavalette]

Gimme summa dat....

Not the potion; the storytelling talent.

[Other]

Always, magic has a price to pay.  Maybe it's worth it.  We'd all like to know.  (Eat the roses!  Eat the roses!)