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Weekly Contest #81
Freshman year of college, and the smell of roses was in the air- a rather painfully obvious indicator to the season of love- and the hushed glow of twine wrapped candles flooded the room. I remember thinking to myself, “All it would take is one wave of my hand to turn the mood lighting into a trail of scented smoke,” but I persisted, and took the time to straighten my bow. The oven timer cut through the silence, and I took the notification as a countdown. I fixed my hair, straightened my collar, and lightly doused my crisp suit in that colog...
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