My Cardboard Balcony

The white rose had withered a long time ago, but Delilah had not removed it from the slender swan-necked vase. So the petals crackled and crinkled and wrinkled until they snapped off the graying steam, drifting downward with the color and texture of old autumn leaves, dusting the tablecloth with feverish spring dreams. Delilah sat in her chair and watched the flower die, sniffing loudly before returning to her book.