The Bunch of Flowers

[Kima]

I remember the day when she gave me the flowers. She was waiting for me as I got off the train, standing by the stairs on the platform, expectant. She seemed so anxious and, for the first time, lacked confidence. As soon as she saw me a shy, hopeful smile spread across her face and I knew she liked me. I should have guessed from the way our hands had touched the previous night when we said goodbye and our fingers lingered, pressing against each other, my hands finding their mirror image in those of Irina. But if my instinct knew, my conscious mind refused to register. The large bunch of flowers now made obvious what her painted nails had failed to convey.

So I wasn't surprised when, after she walked me down the street, we kissed under the bus stop shelter. The intent of her lips was sweet, soft, understated, and full of promises. I can still see myself holding the flowers tightly against me when Irina asked, close to a whisper, can I kiss you? If any instant was pure and true between us, this was it. It felt like all the moments I had spent getting to know her came together and made perfect sense. The rain poured down around us, beyond the blurred faces of the people who tried to suppress their interest in us. Our first kiss was a public event. Like our last.

At home, I arranged the flowers in a vase and looked for an appropriate spot to display them. That's when I realized how big the bunch was. In my room, it took up all the space. There was no right place to put it. It was too high for the shelf, too large for the desk, too voluminous for the low table. Here I would brush against its side as I passed by, there it would topple if I tried to reach other objects. Running out of options, I put it on the floor, in a corner next to the window. From there, the plants greedily swallowed all the light, leaving me in semi-darkness. Once I took in Irina's flowers, it became clear that there would be no space left for anything else.

I sometimes wonder if we could have avoided what followed that first kiss. All the heartbreak, the drama, the wrongness of it all. Part of the appeal of life, I think, lies in its inevitability. That night, in the darkness of the room, the flowers grew and grew until they completely covered the walls with elongated leaves and twisted stems, and by morning the ceiling was sagging under the ripeness of gaping flowers, their deep mouths rimmed with heavy red and purple petals. After that, there was no setting us right.

[cat]

wow
Very passionate writing. This feels like it is just the start of something a lot bigger.

I like your interesting use of the flowers. Very Innovative.

Thanks

cath

[Kima]

Thanks! I'd love to develop it into a proper short story.

[Kris Hughes]

Lovely!

[cat]

Go for it Kima I'd love to read it

[Kima]

I haven't developed it after all, but I have rewritten it. I'd love to have you comments on any of the two versions!

I remember the day when she gave me flowers. When I got off the train, although I didn’t expect to see her, I immediately identified the person anxiously waiting on the platform holding a large, luxuriant bunch of purple and red flowers. She seemed anxious and lacked her usual confidence but smiled as soon as she saw me. In that shy, hopeful smile, I saw how much she liked me and remembered the way our hands had touched the previous night as we said goodbye, how our fingers had lingered, pressing against each other, my hands finding a mirror image in Irina’s. My conscious mind had veiled the truth that now seemed to burst out of the colourful flowers as she held them out to me.

So I wasn’t surprised when, after walking down the street side by side under a single umbrella, we kissed under the bus stop shelter. The intent of her lips was soft, understated, yet full of promises. I can picture myself holding the flowers tightly against my waist when she asked, close to a whisper, can I kiss you? The rain poured around us, blurring the noise of streetcars and shielding us from their curiosity. The irregular drumming of drops on the plastic roof of the shelter was oddly appeasing, as if all the previous times we’d spent together had led us seamlessly to this one, pure moment.

At home, I arranged the flowers in a large blue vase and searched for the appropriate spot to display them. But I couldn’t find one. There seemed to be no right place to put the vase. The shelves were low and would bend the longest stems, crushing their petals, and the bunch was too large to squeeze through the piles of books and papers lying on my desk. I brushed against it on the low table and almost toppled it over. That’s when I realized how big the bunch was: once I put it down there was be no space left for anything else. I finally placed it on the floor, in the corner next to the window. From there, the plants greedily swallowed all the light, leaving me in semi-darkness. As evening turned into night, shadows sprang forth from each of the leaves and stems and stretched out longer by the hour, reaching across the full length of the room when the sun went down.

Thinking back on that first kiss, I sometimes wonder if we could have avoided what followed. All the heartbreak, the drama, the wrongness of it all. I wonder if I should have held on to Irina. Perhaps part of the appeal of life lies in its inevitability. That night, in the darkness of the room, the flowers grew and grew until they completely covered the walls with elongated leaves and twisted stems, and by morning the ceiling was sagging under the ripeness of gaping flowers, their deep mouths rimmed with heavy red and purple petals. After that, there was no setting us right.