Everything changes tomorrow.

Just not the way you planned, Beckett.

Not even a little the way you planned.

Chapter 8 — Funeral Flowers

At six the next morning he came in carrying a huge armful of fresh flowers, and I almost laughed, because they were white lilies.

Funeral flowers.

He had bought me funeral flowers, and set them in a vase by my bed with a bright, warm, performed smile, and had no idea what he was telling me.

I have wondered whether it was a slip of the unconscious or simply carelessness — whether some buried part of Beckett had reached, at the florist, for the flowers that matched what he was really there to do, or whether he just grabbed the biggest, whitest arrangement without a thought and it happened to be the one you send to the dead.