They say that roses do not bloom in the desert, but they're wrong. I know this for myself. I live in a desert town, and the most beautiful rose in the world blossoms right beside me.

Like strawberries and cream, her colors delight the senses. Red and gold unite like a fiery sunset at the top. Cream with flecks of brown covers the rest of her. To the touch she is soft and warm, smooth like velvet, delicate as a spider's silk. I could easily spend my life just touching her or looking at her.

She doesn't know I look, of course. She's well aware of her beauty, but has no idea how much it affects me. I don't show it. I can't show it. It's not in my nature to express my feelings, not to a prized rose that is so far out of my league.

My touches are always accidental, or at least I make them seem that way. I take her hand to help her down from something high, or brush my arm against hers when we are working together. She never seems to notice. I'm not sure I want her to notice. If she did, I would have to confess my love for her, and what would happen then? No, I am content to watch my rose from afar, although my whole body aches sometimes when I am close to her, wanting to be even closer.

I do what I can to care for her. I try to protect her from the cold, shield her from the elements, water her with compliments and feed her with information. She soaks it all up, using it to become even more beautiful by the day.

I know I'm lucky to have her by my side. I know the day will come when

******

The door opened. "Gil?" she asked, smiling inquisitively at him. "What are you doing? You were going to meet me in the print lab."

He quickly minimized the program he had been working on. "Nothing. I'll be right there, Catherine."

End