Fingers trace down a thorny stem, like stroking the snout of a dog ready to snap, before I pinch the stem and reach over with the scissors and cut the shoot in bloom. I place the rose aside on a white handkerchief and reach for the next.

Poor Rita. She was not particularly kind nor perceptive, but when she spoke of wanting to impress someone with painting I felt for her. The entire class regarded her so poorly for having an unfaithful husband, but it seemed she was doing all a woman could to gain respect. What can I say? I had lent her my brushes on the first day of class and she had followed me home like a kitten.

My offended kitten, whom had come looking for trouble. Because Rita knew her husband wasn't perfect.  She knew the person worth catching the approval of was a lover of pitiful sights. One who may have heard the classroom gossip. 

And me. I was a minor villain tempting a pure unappreciated lady to do bad deeds. But one could not simply walk off my path. As we vampires knew, the taste of sweet things like revenge was unstable. The cries of your target's defeat, so reassuring. 

When gulls continue to call overhead, I raise my eyes to the cloud-strewn sky, seeing the tumble of clouds. A sigh of disappointment escapes my lips.

I still remember resting my arms across the warm wooden windowsill, peering out the third story window of our apartment to where boats rocked in the riverside harbor and gulls circled lazily for fish brought ashore. It was a peaceful place where business thrived and my kind could take time to learn what human life was like while our wilder ancestors formed small tribes. But as the sun burned above, the infections simmered below. I could smell the sheen of rot like fish left too long in the sun, like food falling rancid off the bone.

I feel warmth sliding down my thumb as I carelessly pressed flesh to thorn. I lick the wound like a child chasing ice cream. 

The sun is warm on my back as I sit on a yellow painted stool, perched in the lush grass of my small yard. Shadows slant past my eyes from my brimmed hat and tight sleeves brush my arm as I continue to trim. Birds chirp from where they are nesting in the eaves and along the fence wild foxglove bloom a delicate pink.

I blink away the memory and lay the last cut rose at the base of the bush before carrying the cloth wrapped bundle to the kitchen table inside. I pulled back one of the heavy chairs and sat to arrange the flowers in the three vases empty on the table. My slender hands plucked leaf and trimmed stem to tuck each flower into a delicately shaped vase. Like trapping butterflies behind glass, the lingering eternal beauty was adored by people who wished to live forever and never did. And as for the vampires, well, they went the way of the wolf. Hunted. Secluded. Unassuming black and white photos.