One at a time, I feed the beautiful, glorious roses into the machine. It churns and crunches and gurgles and grinds them into a gooey pulp. And I don’t stop until every last rose is gone. It’s cathartic, really. Satisfying. Like some weird piece of domestic performance art. And I’m not even artistic. The silence rings in my ears when I finally turn off the waste disposal. “I want a divorce.” For once, Ryan doesn’t say a thing.
