A Bouquet of Flowers Had Died
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A Bouquet of Flowers Had Died
It had been three weeks since Sean had slammed her apartment door shut. Hard. Hard enough that the landlord had no doubt heard the ruckus and considered checking in on the matter at hand - if not for Iris’ sake, then for the abused doorframe. Fortunately, the metal frame of the door had held up fine. No more than the usual menagerie of scratches and dents. A new coat of paint and that door would look as good as new. The same couldn’t be said of Iris.
It had been three weeks. Nearly a months worth of salty tears, chunky monkey (low fat) ice cream bin(s), and wine - mostly wine. Iris’ recycling bin overflowed like a green volcano, slowly oozing out loud, clanking glass that reeked of grapes. It had gotten to the point that the overly enthusiastic clerk at the local grocer toyed around with the idea of selling the cheap bottles of merlot by the crate. Or even a by-the-bottle rewards program. Since that conversation last week, Iris had decided to change to a different grocer another two blocks down the road for a while. She didn’t mind the extra walking distance. It gave her more time to think about him.
It had only been three weeks, after all. When someone is in a relationship for almost two years, it warranted at least three weeks worth of depressing walks. At least. And so Iris walked. And she thought. And she walked. And she thought. It was a good system. Her routine was like clockwork. Perhaps she could squeeze in the time to her schedule for the next while. Her digital calendar allowed her to add an event that would repeat indefinitely after all. Heck, if they make it that convenient to schedule wine-and-whine trips, why not go ahead and take advantage of it? It wasn’t like the sight of her apartment was any better.
It had been three weeks since Iris had cleaned. She wondered if the shockwaves from the slamming door might have ruptured the cleanliness sector of her brain (which is, of course, directly beside the godliness sector). The only part of her kitchen that was clean was her sink. Only because she had abstained from using her nice plates (Sean had purchased them for her housewarming party) and was strictly using some of the couple hundred paper plates she had accrued from years of accidental over-buying. She supposed that, depending on the duration of this stunt (which, according to her calendar, could be indefinite), she could always begin to utilize the stack of empty pizza boxes as makeshift plates for future pizza investments. She was resourceful, after all. Sean had always said that about her. She thought he’d also said something about never slamming her apartment door. She could be mistaken, of course.
Regardless, it had been three weeks ago that exact scenario had played out before Iris’ eyes. She wondered whether or not she was recalling the scenario correctly. She could recall listening to several podcasts over the past years where the host had mentioned how poor memories could be in rewind. There was always some story about how people would recall the story that had been told in the past. Each story was actually just a recounting of the last iteration of the story and not actually the initial incident at all. Could that really happen? Did Sean actually slam the door or was it actually a calm, cool, and collected exit? Did he actually leave or was that the way she had last told the story? Was he wearing his wool coat when he had left or was it his favorite green pullover? She couldn’t recall that. Maybe that meant this was all just a big misunderstanding on her part.
It had already been three weeks, though. Iris knew that no amount of misunderstanding could last for that long. In actuality, Sean had already missed three of their Monday date nights. He had never been so much as late to the bathroom, let alone one of their Monday date nights. She remembered how excited she was to set up the notification on her digital calendar. It was when she first discovered that she could set up an event to go on repeat indefinitely. But now she was definitely sure that indefinite had been defined.
It had been delivered loud and clear three weeks ago - mostly the loud part. Iris wondered if it were even possible for her to slam a door with such strength. Sean had always been the stronger of the two of them (thanks, Darwin). Right in front of the sore door were strewn some miscellaneous papers - bills, spam, coupons - that had been thrown to the ground by the vicious tornado crafted by the brutal slam. They were unimportant, mostly. The bills were all on auto-pay; she was certain that the companies just insisted on sending the wasteful paper copies (regardless of repetitive requests to go digital) as they laughed maniacally while spraying aerosol cans into the ozone layer. She supposed that technically she was littering by leaving the papers on her apartment floor, but was content with both the pot and kettle being black for the moment. Perhaps the bills would biodegrade into the floorboards and she would win a Nobel for discovering the next great recycling movement. It didn’t matter. Now wasn’t the time for recycling anyway.
It had been three weeks since Iris had even taken the trash, let alone thought about the recycling bin. She assumed that the mountain of decaying garbage would at some become sentient due to a chemical mixing of mozzarella and Febreze. It could become the next great monster movie summer blockbuster. She knew that this was fantasy, of course. Eventually, she would have to at least remove the garbage from the room. She knew that she was only a few purchases away from garnering a by-the-bottle purchase plan for the air freshener cans. It would have to happen soon. She had put it off for this long though. Is there an indefinite setting for the waste management company?
It had been three weeks since Sean’s name had popped up on Iris’ cell phone. But then the cycle broke. His name appeared and she shot up in her grease-covered seat. She quickly calmed back down again. It was a simple enough message requesting that she box up his belongings that were at her apartment for a quick and painless surgical procedure. He would be by the apartment later that day to pick it up. Her mouth tasted of grapes, but the taste quickly dissipated as she looked again at her tastefully designed landfill. She slid on her least favorite pair of soffes and a tie-dye tank. She knew it was time to get to work.
It had been three weeks since Sean gave Iris the final gift she would receive from him before their relationship had slammed shut onto a metal frame. It wasn’t an especially thoughtful gift, as he got them for her every couple of weeks to spruce up the apartment. He thought he was especially clever for the purchase every time, and deep down she had always appreciated it. But the gift was a bit different from her digital calendar. It didn’t last those three weeks. The gift itself had been dead for a week or so. A lack of water has that effect. Crisp brown petals were strewn about on the countertop surrounding the vase. The vibrant purple had faded and dried out.
It had been three weeks since the bouquet of flowers had bloomed. That’s what they do, after all. As Iris grabbed the dried bushel and threw it into a plastic, leak-proof bag, she smiled for the first time in three weeks. She wondered if the grocer had a by-the-bushel card for bouquets. It had been three weeks since the bouquet of flowers had bloomed. But they would bloom again, of course. That’s what they do, after all.
A Bouquet of Flowers Had Died
It had been three weeks since Sean had slammed her apartment door shut. Hard. Hard enough that the landlord had no doubt heard the ruckus and considered checking in on the matter at hand - if not for Iris’ sake, then for the abused doorframe. Fortunately, the metal frame of the door had held up fine. No more than the usual menagerie of scratches and dents. A new coat of paint and that door would look as good as new. The same couldn’t be said of Iris.
It had been three weeks. Nearly a months worth of salty tears, chunky monkey (low fat) ice cream bin(s), and wine - mostly wine. Iris’ recycling bin overflowed like a green volcano, slowly oozing out loud, clanking glass that reeked of grapes. It had gotten to the point that the overly enthusiastic clerk at the local grocer toyed around with the idea of selling the cheap bottles of merlot by the crate. Or even a by-the-bottle rewards program. Since that conversation last week, Iris had decided to change to a different grocer another two blocks down the road for a while. She didn’t mind the extra walking distance. It gave her more time to think about him.
It had only been three weeks, after all. When someone is in a relationship for almost two years, it warranted at least three weeks worth of depressing walks. At least. And so Iris walked. And she thought. And she walked. And she thought. It was a good system. Her routine was like clockwork. Perhaps she could squeeze in the time to her schedule for the next while. Her digital calendar allowed her to add an event that would repeat indefinitely after all. Heck, if they make it that convenient to schedule wine-and-whine trips, why not go ahead and take advantage of it? It wasn’t like the sight of her apartment was any better.
It had been three weeks since Iris had cleaned. She wondered if the shockwaves from the slamming door might have ruptured the cleanliness sector of her brain (which is, of course, directly beside the godliness sector). The only part of her kitchen that was clean was her sink. Only because she had abstained from using her nice plates (Sean had purchased them for her housewarming party) and was strictly using some of the couple hundred paper plates she had accrued from years of accidental over-buying. She supposed that, depending on the duration of this stunt (which, according to her calendar, could be indefinite), she could always begin to utilize the stack of empty pizza boxes as makeshift plates for future pizza investments. She was resourceful, after all. Sean had always said that about her. She thought he’d also said something about never slamming her apartment door. She could be mistaken, of course.
Regardless, it had been three weeks ago that exact scenario had played out before Iris’ eyes. She wondered whether or not she was recalling the scenario correctly. She could recall listening to several podcasts over the past years where the host had mentioned how poor memories could be in rewind. There was always some story about how people would recall the story that had been told in the past. Each story was actually just a recounting of the last iteration of the story and not actually the initial incident at all. Could that really happen? Did Sean actually slam the door or was it actually a calm, cool, and collected exit? Did he actually leave or was that the way she had last told the story? Was he wearing his wool coat when he had left or was it his favorite green pullover? She couldn’t recall that. Maybe that meant this was all just a big misunderstanding on her part.
It had already been three weeks, though. Iris knew that no amount of misunderstanding could last for that long. In actuality, Sean had already missed three of their Monday date nights. He had never been so much as late to the bathroom, let alone one of their Monday date nights. She remembered how excited she was to set up the notification on her digital calendar. It was when she first discovered that she could set up an event to go on repeat indefinitely. But now she was definitely sure that indefinite had been defined.
It had been delivered loud and clear three weeks ago - mostly the loud part. Iris wondered if it were even possible for her to slam a door with such strength. Sean had always been the stronger of the two of them (thanks, Darwin). Right in front of the sore door were strewn some miscellaneous papers - bills, spam, coupons - that had been thrown to the ground by the vicious tornado crafted by the brutal slam. They were unimportant, mostly. The bills were all on auto-pay; she was certain that the companies just insisted on sending the wasteful paper copies (regardless of repetitive requests to go digital) as they laughed maniacally while spraying aerosol cans into the ozone layer. She supposed that technically she was littering by leaving the papers on her apartment floor, but was content with both the pot and kettle being black for the moment. Perhaps the bills would biodegrade into the floorboards and she would win a Nobel for discovering the next great recycling movement. It didn’t matter. Now wasn’t the time for recycling anyway.
It had been three weeks since Iris had even taken the trash, let alone thought about the recycling bin. She assumed that the mountain of decaying garbage would at some become sentient due to a chemical mixing of mozzarella and Febreze. It could become the next great monster movie summer blockbuster. She knew that this was fantasy, of course. Eventually, she would have to at least remove the garbage from the room. She knew that she was only a few purchases away from garnering a by-the-bottle purchase plan for the air freshener cans. It would have to happen soon. She had put it off for this long though. Is there an indefinite setting for the waste management company?
It had been three weeks since Sean’s name had popped up on Iris’ cell phone. But then the cycle broke. His name appeared and she shot up in her grease-covered seat. She quickly calmed back down again. It was a simple enough message requesting that she box up his belongings that were at her apartment for a quick and painless surgical procedure. He would be by the apartment later that day to pick it up. Her mouth tasted of grapes, but the taste quickly dissipated as she looked again at her tastefully designed landfill. She slid on her least favorite pair of soffes and a tie-dye tank. She knew it was time to get to work.
It had been three weeks since Sean gave Iris the final gift she would receive from him before their relationship had slammed shut onto a metal frame. It wasn’t an especially thoughtful gift, as he got them for her every couple of weeks to spruce up the apartment. He thought he was especially clever for the purchase every time, and deep down she had always appreciated it. But the gift was a bit different from her digital calendar. It didn’t last those three weeks. The gift itself had been dead for a week or so. A lack of water has that effect. Crisp brown petals were strewn about on the countertop surrounding the vase. The vibrant purple had faded and dried out.
It had been three weeks since the bouquet of flowers had bloomed. That’s what they do, after all. As Iris grabbed the dried bushel and threw it into a plastic, leak-proof bag, she smiled for the first time in three weeks. She wondered if the grocer had a by-the-bushel card for bouquets. It had been three weeks since the bouquet of flowers had bloomed. But they would bloom again, of course. That’s what they do, after all.
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