On the dance floor, the band began to play a slow song. The guests clapped as Ben led Rosie out, his hand steady on her waist.
I stood alone by the punch bowl as the wedding guests applaud the couple.
The screen door of the yellow house did not latch properly, so I tapped twice on the wood frame and let myself into the kitchen.
The morning light was thin, casting long shadows across the checkered linoleum.
Rosie was standing near the stove, her shoulders lifted as she laughed.
Ben held both of her hands, moving her in a slow, awkward circle to a song only they seemed to hear.
On the counter sat a green metal watering can and a fresh bunch of yellow marigolds, their bright heads spilling over the rim of an old jelly jar.
“You’re early, Clara,” Ben said, stepping back but keeping one hand on Rosie’s shoulder.
Rosie bounced on her heels, pointing at the counter.
“We have flowers,” she said, her voice slow and warm.
“I see them,” I said. “They look like little suns.”
I adjusted my silver watch strap, pulling it a notch tighter against my wrist as I looked around the room.
The yellow paint on the walls was peeling slightly near the window frame, showing the pale green layer underneath.
Ben smiled, but his eyes stayed guarded as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Just some wild ones from the ditch near the bypass,” Ben said. “The frost hasn’t taken them yet.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said.
“They smell like the woods,” Rosie said, leaning her face close to the petals.
“We were just about to sit down,” Ben said, pulling out one of the yellow vinyl chairs from the table. “I made some oatmeal.”
“I can’t stay long,” I said, though I sat down anyway.
My eyes drifted to the small kitchen table, where a folded piece of paper lay next to Rosie’s blue ceramic sugar bowl.
It was a bank deposit slip from Oak Creek Bank, and though it was face down, the blue ink of the logo showed clearly through the thin paper.
“Are you staying for toast?” Rosie asked.
