You Never Bring Me Flowers
By Karen Kalbacher“The red are beautiful,” I ran a finger along a velour petal then down a stem to touch the sharp point of a thorn. One thick crimson spot of blood appeared on the finger. I kissed the color away leaving my skin paler, cleaner. “I'll take three red and one white. But make sure the reds are the deepest darkest garnet and the white is so bright it hurts to look at it.”
“Sure lady,” the shopkeeper's voice grated, metal against metal in my ears. I kept my eyes on him solidly. His fingers, thin and dark like sticks of incense touched first one flower than the next like cinnamon bees, pollinating. When a flower pleased him, he plucked it crane game style and freed it from its brethren to soak it in fresher water and dip his fingers again. They hesitated over the white roses. His dark eyes darted back and forth seeing roses that were just ever so slightly pink or yellow and rejecting them. Finally his hand dropped into the mountain of white and pulled out one single perfect fluffy summer sky cloud of a flower and dropped it into the fresh water with the bloody red roses.
I must have smiled then, for he did and his cracked teeth, yellowed with cigarette tar were darker than the friendship roses. He bundled the flowers with those incense fingers, leaving traces of sandalwood and pine among the thick heady rose scent. When he was done he handed them to me as if we were to be married and I graciously accepted them with the green from my wallet.
“Thank you,” I offered him my best smile and a wink, turning my body so he couldn't see my shape beneath my London Fog in classic black.
“He must be a very special man to get flowers from such a beautiful dark haired beauty as you.” The shopkeeper said as he offered me my change. His fingers lingered, tainting my hand with drops of sandalwood. “Or is very special woman?”
Laughing, I pull my fingers loose from his, “It's a modern world,” I tell him and leave without actually answering his question. I find that most men like to think women are fucking other women. Something about a bunch of girls kissing one another gets them all hot and bothered. I wasn't going to destroy that mental joy for a man who had given me such fine roses.
The air hits my jacket and whispers its way through the dense threads freezing my lower back with winter kisses. I have to hurry if I'm going to catch a cab home before rush hour. My watch says 4:15 but it is fifteen minutes slow and I know the traffic is already mounting. I just need to get home before Brandy leaves. The flowers are for him. The flowers and a few other surprises…
“Taxi!” I put all of my leg naked and shining with nude pantyhose out into the wind. The pump holds my chunky ankle up high enough to elongate everything and a cab nearly rolls over a BMW to pick me up. The cab was occupied.
“Roses, for me? You shouldn't have!” He was tall, moderately handsome with tan skin in winter and teeth white and shiny like perfect frosty ice cubes in a row. His hair was dyed blonde and his clothes were expensive. He could have afforded a car.
I offer him a polite smile, “They're for my boyfriend.”
“Where you going lady?” I can't see the cabby and I'm not really interested in him, “Tenth and Pine Street .”
“So you're boyfriend, what's he like? Think you would dump him for me? Think maybe he should be buying you flowers?” He glances at his watch and it's obvious he's bored and trying to waste our time. I bite.
Arranging my jacket to cover the shapes beneath it, I answer, “No, Brandy never buys me flowers.”
“Never? That's hard to believe,” He leaned back and got himself comfortable, opening his legs to me. “How long you been dating this wonder of mankind?”
“Four years, I met him at a wine tasting and I loved him. He says he loves me.” I lean back and cross my legs to him. Brandy is the opposite of this man, dark hair, pale eyes and skin, soft spoken and shy with every one but me.
The man across from me checked his watch again before continuing our discourse, “And never once has he bought you flowers?”
“Not once,”
“Do you hate them?”
“No, I love them. They are absolutely the most perfect things in the universe, beauty for beauty's sake. They're pure attractors. I love them. I would have them in every room. But Brandy he thinks it's a waste to buy them.”
“Because they die so fast,” the guy nodded, “then he buys you ice?”
“Ice?”
“Diamonds, jewelry, furs? He buys you those things.” The watch flashed again. His interest in me was waning, which was good. We were nearly there.
“No, socks and practical things, three years and not a single romantic present.” I felt depressed. I glanced at the roses in my hand. Their beauty was suffocating me. “Now I've become a practical thing to him. I could be socks. I keep his feet warm at night.”
“So what's with the flowers?”
“They're a symbol.”
The cab pulled to a stop. I could see the old brownstone from the window. “Thank you for the conversation. It passed the time.” I handed a twenty to the cabby and stepped out. My jacket flared out around me and when I turned back to wave at my companion his eyes were wide and he banged the window for the cab to move.
Taking the steps two at a time, I made it to my door and juggled the roses so I could get my key from my petite black satin purse. The door opened inward and white walls greeted me. I wish we had painted them a bright color and hung art on them but Brandy didn't believe in wasting money on art or paint or decorating. The plain beige carpet led me to the white tiled kitchen and I looked across the white laminated counters to the white appliances and the completely magnet free refrigerator. Brandy wasn't downstairs.
My heart picked up speed. I had to do this today. Today was our anniversary, three years and I had to give him the flowers. I raced up the beige carpeted steps to the second floor with its blank walls and to our bedroom. “Brandy?”
“Eileen you're home early,” he stood in a black robe and tight white briefs.
“Brandy,” I held out the roses.
“What are those for? You know I hate roses. Or any kind of flower they're just a waste of money, honey. How many times do I have to tell you that? Beauty is fleeting. What's the point of getting wrapped up in it?”
“Because it's important, Brandy. We can't live in plain unfinished places. Beauty makes things a home. It gives things a feeling.” I held the roses out to him again.
He refused them again, “They're dead, Eil. They will just make a mess on the carpet tomorrow when they rot.”
“Just take them. They're got the most heavenly scent and they feel wonderful against your fingertips. We'll put them in water and admire them. Brandy it will make us feel things. Beauty makes us feel things.” I kept my hands extended, the perfect roses shining under the white smoked glass lights. “Tell me they make you feel something.”
“I'm sorry, Eileen, they're just some stupid flowers. I honestly don't get you. This is exactly like last year when you brought that paint home. I told you then, what is the point of using a bright color on the walls? We'll only want to paint over it a week later. It's not worth the work and those flowers should go straight into the trash. They're not going to live long enough to make putting them in a vase worth it. Now can you get rid of them and take a shower? I hate when you paint your face.”
Depression settled deep into the pit of my stomach. I dropped my London Fog onto the snow white carpet of our bedroom. I pulled the 9mm out of the side holster and took the safety off. Brandy's back was to me so I had a full view of the room with its blank walls and empty dresser tops. It was a blank canvas ready to be painted, so I pulled the trigger.
Loud and expansive, the gun exploded Brandy's back and he fell, spilling red ink and pink blobs of color everywhere. He never even screamed, just spilled color until the room felt something. I dropped the gun and pulled the bouquet apart, leaving the single perfect, clean white rose on top of Brandy's back.
I placed the red ones in a vase on the counter in the kitchen. Their scent carried me through as I showered the colors off my body, packed my clothes and left the brownstone. I would put new colors into my hair and onto my face and onto the walls of a new place and spread them everywhere, littering my home with beautiful impractical things. And if they catch me some day, I will tell them I killed him. I will tell them he never brought me flowers.
The End