Greg brings her roses: soft blown-open ones, deep-dusk-red. Molly's lovely when her smile is so unguarded.

I like them, she says, they're like roses from a grandma's garden. They're not the kind of flowers you'd give your wife. She stops, winces; the smile is gone. I-I mean. Um. Coffee?

He knows what she means, he thinks. Still, it pricks him a little. Coffee, yes, great.

Molly hesitates, bolts, returns with mugs. It's awful coffee, she offers, apologetic, but the tea is worse and the milk's off, so- They drink the awful coffee. Greg's had worse. The roses ramble on the white work-surface, heady in the quiet. They lace the breath with fragrance, fill the lungs. Molly puts them in a beaker; it's too short. Blooms overflow the edge, as if astonished.

She prods a velvet petal. They don't quite fit.

Greg shakes his head. They're perfect.