“Mm.” He hummed, as if to acknowledge her.
She seemed to get into the rhythm of reading, “Actually, every woman’s soul contains both the red rose and the white rose, but only a man who understands love can make the woman he loves more and more beautiful. Even the cold white flower, like starlight, can bloom charmingly.” She finished this passage with great enthusiasm, but there was silence on the other end, “Hello, are you listening?”
“Baby, do you miss me?” He suddenly asked, his voice hoarse.
“Stop it, don’t interrupt. I’m reciting poetry for you!”
“Alright, you little rascal… I’m listening.”
“I won’t read anymore,” Khanyi pouted, deliberately pretending to be a bit angry, and complained, “You’re not even paying attention.”
“I’m listening.” He repeated his earlier words. Although she couldn’t see his expression, she could imagine his dismissive look. “I won’t read anymore. I’ve read so much already; I want you to read me a poem…”
She said this with great anticipation, but there was a long silence on the other end.
“Hello? Are you there?” She suddenly felt that the atmosphere was a bit off and became anxious. Did he get angry and hang up? But she didn’t hear the sound of the call ending. Just as she was about to hang up and redial, she suddenly heard footsteps and the sound of pages turning on the other end. Then she heard him clear his throat and slightly raise his voice, ‘What is Love?'”
He paused for a few seconds before starting to read in a standard manner, “What is love? Love is a star shrouded in morning mist. Without you, heaven becomes hell. Lovely battle, subtle tremors, this, shy and gentle embrace, on your beautiful cherry lips, I usually use kisses to replace words; my kiss is like a flame that bursts forth from the depths of my heart. The happiness that kissed me yesterday has already turned to nothing today; the sincere love I gain never lasts long. There is one way for a woman to make a man happy; but there are over three thousand ways to make a man unhappy! Only in love is there truth. What exactly is love? … No one can answer that.”
Because it was the poet’s mother tongue, his pronunciation was very standard, with the right emphasis and pauses, and his voice was so affectionate that as she listened, her heart trembled, and her eyes became a bit moist…
While she was brewing her emotions, she heard him chuckling on the other end.
“What… are you laughing at?”
“Hmm, isn’t it funny?” It sounded like he had put the book down on the table with a thud.
“Where’s the humor in that?” She asked him, confused.
He was silent for a moment, his tone somewhat uncooperative, as if he were talking to himself, “I don’t know when, but a female secretary left a poetry collection on my desk.”
“What?” She protested loudly. “Is it that secretary named Anna?”
“Anna? I have too many secretaries; I can’t remember…” His voice had a hint of pride, as if he was suppressing laughter.
She held the receiver tightly, feeling both anxious and angry, unable to find her voice.
He decided to stop teasing her, took a deep breath, and returned to his usual tone, “It’s getting late; you should rest.” After a slight pause, he said in a deeper voice, “Goodnight, my baby.”
“Mm… okay, goodnight.” Her voice was a bit lonely, feeling a pang in her heart. But his tone clearly indicated he wanted to end the call. She should understand; he must be very tired lately since he only called late at night. Slowly, she moved the receiver away from her ear. Although she felt a bit reluctant, she had to hang up first.
She knew he was waiting for her to end the call because it was always like this; he was happy to maintain his gentlemanly demeanor, letting the lady hang up first. This time, however, she unexpectedly heard his voice on the other end, “Actually…” She widened her eyes, listening intently to what he would say next, only to hear his soothing and gentle voice, “Whether it’s red or white, my lovely little rose, how wonderful it would be if I could tuck you into my pocket and carry you with me.”
Inhaling the faint scent of ink from the manuscript, her mood suddenly brightened. Yes, regardless of red roses or white roses, roses symbolize love. She lay down in the soft bed, pulling the blanket up high, leaving only a pair of shiny black eyes gazing towards the large floor-to-ceiling window.
The bouquet of yellow roses on the table was blooming beautifully. He had been gone for two weeks now, and this bouquet of roses was from that Easter Sunday when he first called her. The maid, Abigail, had received it early in the morning from a clerk at a flower shop and brought it to her room on the second floor, soaking in that glass vase.
