“Roses,” said Ellie, quite impatiently to the sales clerk. “I want roses.  Yes.  We’re getting roses.  Okay, Daniel?” I nodded, resisting the urge to retaliate, if that. Public settings were no place to hash out minor things. Besides, if I could handle the small things with such decorum and control, how easy it would be able to handle the large ones! I watched her marvel at all the intricately designed china patterns; no flaw in them and not a hint of bitterness. And then I thought of how they reminded me of her soul. I loved her, it was just the beginning, and I loved her.
Dishes, silverware, glasses, and cups have been standard household item for centuries upon centuries. One starts out with a brand new set; untarnished and proportional in number to the other dishes. But over time, they get used, misplaced, tarnished, and even broken, and soon one is left with a conglomeration of various styles of dishes. Of course their style and color do not match. But they are still functional.
I would come home from work and she would be there with her smile. Her dress freshly pressed, her cheeks freshly brushed, and her eyes sparkling with the words “I love you”. She would ask how my day was and how the business was faring, I would tell her good. She laughed at the mailman’s little terrier who would come up to our front door, and we would converse over dinner like two lovers in a never ending summer. Her family would come for dinner and her father and I would discuss politics while her and her mother would sit on the couch and bubble over our new life together. She thought I couldn’t hear.
Squeaky wheels on our machines, rough edges, and dirty, broken dishes cause flames to rise when, in all reality, how can we expect well oiled parts, round edges, and squeaky clean dishes for all eternity? Our coffee is burnt and the birds aren’t singing. But the sun still exists.
I come home a bit later than usual and don’t expect a smile but certainly not a series of broken glass reactions. Her lips are bitter, her hair slightly undone, and her dress is stained with the fear of losing something she has never found. “You’re late,” she jabbed. “I know,” I retorted more crudely than intended. She stood up as she set the glass she was holding down harshly onto the ten month old coffee table. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Nothing. I’m fine. I’m always fine.” The evening mail came and she yelled at the mailman’s little terrier. Our dinner was cold, and dusk filled the room where the lights were hardly on. A knock came at the door and she answered it as if someone had just handed her one million dollars in cash. “Hi, hello, how are you? Thank you so much for returning it! Oh no, it was my pleasure. I hope you enjoyed it! Okay! Have a great evening, you two. Take care. Bye.” She pivoted around after closing the door, looked at me with a look that I at the time registered as a scowl, but after contemplation I realized was a silent cry for help. But I did nothing.

Her replies became shorter and the nights of sleeping separately much longer. She snapped at me for spilling the coffee, I retaliated with a wave of stinging defense that only drowned her instead of cleansing. “Why can’t you just clean up after yourself? Why can’t you let me do it and quit nagging me? Why can’t you take constructive criticism? Because I know you mean it as an insult. No I don’t. Yes you do.” I knew she didn’t, but I continued to twist the knife.
Delicate and preserved, china dishes are a luxury of many households. Flawless in color and design, but oh so breakable. So much love and care placed in such fragile things? And only seen on special occasions. Other times they are hidden away from society and hardly anyone notices they are there at all. How lovely they are to observe from their glass case! Their glossy outer shell. Their façade of beauty and strength covering up their fatal weakness and fragility.
Four hours late and trust had withered away like the roses on our china that we picked out our very first week. Opening the door I found her standing in the corner of the kitchen, broken china dishes surrounding her like a prison camp she could never escape from. The doors to the once enclosed and preserved china cabinet were swung wide open, no longer allowed to hide a single thing. She looked at me with the same eyes she did our first week. They were tear-filled now, her dress ripped, her hair a mess, her hands callused. The broken plates screamed “You could have done better to make things run smoothly”. The broken glasses screamed “You could have been gentler with your words”. The broken bowls screamed, “You will never again have round edges”. Her tear stained face screamed, “You could have loved me better”. I grabbed a broom, and began to push my way through the broken heart, to her. Maybe I could have tried harder, had more patience, loved deeper, kept things like that very first week. I reached her corner of the kitchen and looked into her eyes to try to tape the confusion back into order. “Things aren’t going to be the same,” she cried into my chest. “Exactly,” I whispered.
Ellie and I went to pick out new china dishes that very next morning as the sun was still raising in the sky. “Asters,” she said, this time beaming. “I want Asters. Do you want Asters, Daniel?” I nodded and smiled at her. We returned home where Ellie fell asleep on the couch, and I was left to put away the new dishes. I set them next to the surviving pieces of our previous set, and smiled because it wasn’t perfect. I looked at her; she wasn’t perfect. But I loved her, it was just the beginning, and I loved her.