Red rose tattoo on a shoulder

I went past the florist on Cable Street this morning and the man was hosing down the buckets outside, and every bloom in them had beads of water sitting on the petals like they were waiting for a bus. I stood there longer than a grown woman should. You would have laughed at me. You always said I looked at flowers the way other men look at football results.

The reunion was a mess, as you predicted. Pauline still runs the raffle like it's the Grand National, and the hall smelt of floor polish and warm sausage rolls. Nobody asked after you directly, which I think was kindness. Only Dennis Hale mentioned the summer we bunked off to the reservoir, and when he said it, I could see you in the doorway with your red cardigan half-buttoned, daring me to swim out to the buoy.

I kept thinking about the rose bush behind your mother's garage, the one with the thorns she never trimmed. You cut one for me that last August and it dropped its petals on the back seat of my dad's Cortina, and I pretended not to notice for a week. I still have one pressed in my diary, though it has gone the colour of weak tea.

I am writing this on the back of the raffle ticket because I could not find paper. Pauline has my number and so does your sister. If you ever want to tell me what I got wrong that summer, I will listen this time, I promise. The rain has started again, and I can hear it running off the gutters in the car park.

Yours, always, Tom