Fiction! Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses 1.
Juliet twirled in front of the chipped mirror, the worn silk of her favorite gown whispering against her ankles. It wasn't the finest fabric, a far cry from the gowns promised by suitors with bulging purses, but for Juliet, it held memories. Memories of Jonathan, the baker's son with flour-dusted hair and eyes the color of summer wheat.
Jonathan, unlike the others, hadn't spoken of gowns or shoes. He'd spoken of roses, his voice hushed as he snuck a single, perfect bloom through the back gate of her garden. "Thy beds of roses," he'd murmured, a blush creeping up his neck, echoing a line from a poem they'd both read. A poem about fleeting pleasures and a love that transcended them.
Juliet clutched the rose, its velvety petals cool against her palm. Her own garden, a riot of color and fragrance, was her solace. Unlike the wilting promises of suitors who saw only her dowry, these roses bloomed with a constancy that mirrored Jonathan's heart.
A knock on the back gate startled her. It was too early for the baker's delivery. Peeking through the window, she saw not the usual gruff delivery boy, but Jonathan himself, a hesitant smile playing on his lips.
"Juliet," he stammered, holding out a basket overflowing with wildflowers. "I, uh, I borrowed some time from the bakery. Would you like to take a walk with me?"
Juliet, her heart swelling, grabbed a shawl and met him at the gate. As they walked, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Jonathan spoke. Not of grand gestures, but of his dreams – of opening his own bakery, filled with the aroma of fresh bread and the warmth of a crackling oven. He spoke of wanting to build a life with Juliet, a life where love, not wealth, was the foundation.
They reached a clearing bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Jonathan knelt, pulling a single, perfect rose from his pocket. "This," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "reminds me of your garden, your beauty, and the love I have for you. It may not be a gown or a bed of roses, but it's all I have to offer."
Tears welled up in Juliet's eyes. It wasn't the rose, but the love behind it, that mattered. "Jonathan," she whispered, "you offer me a love that is constant, like the sun that rises every morning. A love that will bloom even in the harshest winter."
He slipped the rose into her hair, and they sealed their promise with a kiss. The kiss tasted of sunshine, flour, and the promise of a future built together, brick by brick, rose by rose.
News of their engagement spread like wildfire. Her family, initially aghast, were eventually disarmed by Jonathan's quiet determination and Juliet's unwavering love. They offered a dowry, not of silks and jewels, but of land adjacent to Jonathan's dream bakery.
The wedding was a simple affair, held in the garden filled with the scent of Juliet's roses. Juliet wore a new dress, not of expensive silk, but of a soft, woven cotton, hand-stitched by her mother. It was a dress that held the love of her family, the promise of a future, and the memory of the first rose Jonathan had given her.
Their bakery became a haven. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the scent of flowers Juliet brought in every morning. They weren't wealthy, but their lives were rich with love, laughter, and the sweet satisfaction of building something beautiful together.
Years passed. Juliet, her fingers dusted with flour, helped Jonathan knead dough. Their first child, a girl with her mother's eyes and Jonathan's gentle smile, toddled around the bakery, giggling.
One evening, as they sat by the window, watching the sun set over their fields of wheat, Jonathan took Juliet's hand, his calloused fingers tracing familiar lines. "Remember," he said, a nostalgic smile on his lips, "thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses?"
Juliet chuckled. "How could I forget? Though," she added, squeezing his hand, "your love has proven to be much more enduring than any silk gown."
Jonathan leaned in, his eyes warm. "And," he whispered, "your love is more fragrant than any bed of roses."
They sat in comfortable silence, the setting sun painting their world in shades of gold, a testament to a love story built not on fleeting pleasures, but on the enduring strength of devotion and shared dreams. Their love story wasn't about grand gestures, but about the quiet beauty of everyday moments, the comfort of a love that bloomed even amongst the flour and the wheat. It was a love story as constant as the sun's rising.
