A Small, Good Thing

He came in on Tuesdays, always at half past four, and always for the same thing: one white rose, wrapped in brown paper, no ribbon.

For eleven weeks she did not ask. On the twelfth week she did.

'It's for my wife,' he said. 'She's been gone a year on Thursday. But she liked Tuesdays best.'

She wrapped the rose the way she always did, and she did not charge him, and neither of them mentioned it the following week.