Chocolate cake makes you fat. So does ice cream.

I warn you, his kiss is probably equally sweet, equally unhealthy.

Nickolas' boquet is on the coffeetable, a handful of dasies and daffodils plucked from where they grew wild. It is what he likes to think he would have brought his lady-love on a sweet summer day, long ago, had he been a mortal man.

Everywhere, surrounding the fading wildflowers, I have put white roses in crystal vases.

And, in a bucket of ice, a bottle of champagne, just for old times' sake.

Not inappropriate, I assure you. Roses also die.