How long does it take for coffee to go cold? For flowers to wither? 

How many words can fit on a page? How many times have I read them over? 

Again and again. My eyes refuse to move past the first few lines—the first two words. Careful, darling. 

The words Dave said to me when we first met: the beginning of our story.

Dave and the way he twirled the single strand of chestnut hair falling in my eyes – the same hair I later cut into a bob because I knew he'd love how it bounced to reveal my neckline, my shoulders. 

Dave and the soft scent of fresh tobacco, which he would roll with nimble fingers, then hold between his thin lips and sly smile.

He caught me window shopping on Fifth. I tripped, a silly thing to do, but I'd been distracted by a crimson dress on Saks. Sleeveless, with a high jewel neckline, crafted from the finest crepe de Chine. I lost my footing. 

Careful, darling. 

He caught me – strong arms, the scent of smoke – saving me from a foolish fall, from public humiliation. 

He appeared at my door the day after, brazen, beaming. Invited me out for a stroll. 

Mother had claimed it ludicrous. What type of gentleman would not call on the family first? But Father had been lenient. It was impossible not to. Dave and his dazzling smile.

Dave would give me flowers, red chrysanthemums, he said, the blooms of goddesses. Then, he'd stay the night. Fumble with my sheets. Promise me happily ever after. 

It hardly mattered that I came from money and he had no family. He was self-made, industrious, ingenious. He loved me and my bob.

That was a strange point in the chapter. An ending that felt too good – or too soon – to be true. But I ignored it. 

I ignored it when I first saw the lady with red hair and the crimson dress. The same one Dave had promised to buy me. But it fit her too well: the crepe de Chine shimmering and swirling with her steps. 

I ignored the flare in his eyes at the sight of her. Careful, darling.

Dave, and the last time I saw him. The way his brown eyes flickered when he said he'd call. A dying flame struggling to stay alight. 

I'd picked up a book to try and fill the gap his absence had left. In my day. In my mind. In my heart. A desperate, hollow feeling, a craving almost like hunger, that I could never satisfy. 

How long has it been now? And still, I sit. Leafing through the memories. 

I look at the flowers. Bright and lively, like the promises Dave had made me. But I see them for the first time. Not a charming declaration of love: a warning sign. Red as alarms go. 

And in my hands, the two words suddenly make sense. I can read between the lines. Careful, darling. 

I close the book.