I twirl the flower between my soft fingers and wonder where I picked it up, because for the life of me I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything, really. Except for those words. The words that had slipped through those lips. The lips I had savored on so many occasions. The lips I’d never taste again.
I start to pluck at the delicate petals – one, “he loves me,” two, “he loves me not.” But that’s where I stop. Because there is no need to keep plucking. I’ve already reached my answer. And I laugh a little. Wishing I’d found this flower months ago. Plucked it and found my answer then.
Big sloppy droplets from the heavens start to pour down on me. Me, in my white chiffon blouse. I don’t have an umbrella with me. Never do. Perfect. Everyone around me starts to run and take cover under anything they can find – overhangs, briefcases. But I just keep moving at my same pace. And I know everyone can see through my blouse now. And I don’t care. The rain feels good, actually. Cleansing and liberating. I look up at the sky as I walk down the usually crowded sidewalk and find myself wishing it would rain harder. Scrub everything away. But life is never that easy, is it?
I’m so preoccupied staring at the sky that I don’t avoid the metal grate like I normally do. My shoe gets caught in one of the openings and snaps. And I laugh again. Because what else can I do? Cry? I’m tired of crying. I’m at Broadway and Main and there’s a trashcan there. I take off my shoes and toss them into the bin. And I stop for a moment. Staring at it. Wishing I could toss away more. Rid myself of these memories. Or maybe not even the memories, but at least the pain that comes with them.
The blinking sign says “Walk” and I do. Barely. My feet slosh as I move and I feel myself stepping over hard mounds of gum and god knows what else. It’s gross, what I feel. And I’m not talking about what’s on the ground, I’m talking about what crawls around my soul, my heart, this empty shell of a once happy girl.
I’m inside my apartment and I don’t remember walking here. I can’t remember anything, really. Drip. Drip. There’s a puddle forming on the floor around me – I’m soaked. And I feel something in-between my fingers. I look down and realize I’m holding a flower – half plucked, wet, and broken. Just like me.
I keep holding it and walk over to him and lay it on his silky black surface. I take a seat. Close my eyes. And I listen – it’s beautiful. Tragic sounding, but beautiful. And as my body sways to our creation, I realize that it may always be just me in this life, but I’ll never be lonely so long as we’re together – me, and my 88 friends.