The Gardener and the Roses

August pretended reading the Dark Rose cafe’s menu, though she had memorized every sweet and savory pastry down to the bitter espresso when she found this hidden gemstone a year ago. In the downtown sector of a small farming town, the cafe sunbathed on the corner of a four-way street during the afternoon. August sat at a high table by the floor to the ceiling window, with faded remnants of children’s fingerprints. She listened to the soothing jingle of customers gliding in and out of the cafe, the strumming of the harp playing softly through the speakers, and the whispers of gossip and conspiracy theories rising and falling like waves obeying the tides. She frequented the cafe daily, her home away from home, you could say. Though, her blind date wouldn’t have known that, and she didn’t want to bruise his confidence since he picked this spot for their first date.

“Hmm, what should we have?” Henry muttered, sitting across from August, the menu open like a book before him. He had rose blonde hair tied in a bun, a few strands grazing his black glasses that highlighted his blue, honest eyes. At least, August thought he seemed honest until she discovered that his glasses didn’t have lenses, and his deep green leather jacket with gold bullets on one shoulder told her enough: he’s a poser.

Mother had always said men’s egos were as fragile and soft as roses, and folks mistaken the rose itself as strong, beautiful, and resilient, but it was the rose bush that had those qualities. She believed women were the gardeners, feeding roses with gentle words, warm hands, and a safe home. Without a woman’s touch, the rose would wilt until its petals piled on the cold concrete floor.

August yearned for a rose of her own. She missed a man’s warm embrace and how his calloused hands entwined in hers. Her ex-boyfriend had ghosted her after finding an apartment of his own, and she assumed bitterly that he wanted housing, not affection. An ache of loneliness bloomed in her chest until she crushed the thought of him. The best remedy to move on was to find someone else. She peered over her menu at Henry.

“Oh, they have ‘the best grilled cheese,’” Henry said sarcastically. “I bet mine’s better.”

“Are you a chef?” August closed her menu and set it on the edge of the table, ready to order.

“Do I cook for a living?” Henry scoffed. “Anyone can do that. Just like anyone can make grilled cheese.” He shook his head, disappointed. “Sorry babe, I should’ve taken you somewhere nicer.”

August forced a tight-lipped smile. Babe? She internally cringed, crossing her arms against her chest. Their knees grazed a hairbreath against each other, and she discreetly adjusted the hem of her favorite blue spring dress over her kneecaps.

“What, you don’t like to be called ‘babe’?” Henry raised his brows. “It’s a compliment.”

“It’s a term of endearment,” August then added gently, “and I just met you.”

Henry lifted his open hands in defeat. “Okay, whatever.”

The waiter appeared at the table, as if mistaking Henry’s gesture. “Good afternoon, what would you like to order?” He poured water in the empty glasses, August’s first then Henry’s. His Japanese style tattoo of clouds and red cherry blossoms peeked out from underneath his sleeve and drew her eyes up his muscular arm. His dress shirt was as deep as roses, and that apron tied around his slender waist made her forget about Henry’s existence. The waiter met her gaze with woodsy brown eyes, like an enchanting forest with dark secrets and monsters in hiding. Dangerous and intriguing.

August hadn’t seen him before at the cafe. A new employee?

Oblivious, Henry dropped the menu on the table, the glassware rattling. It startled August, and she averted her gaze to the water rippling in the glass flutes. He ordered, “We’ll have two caramel macchiatos made with oat milk and two avocado croissant sandwiches.” Henry slapped the menu closed and almost hit the waiter’s stomach as he returned it.

“I think I want something else.” August reopened her menu, jaw tight. Did Henry think he was impressing her by taking charge? Every woman was as different as the changing leaves in autumn. He shouldn’t have assumed that August liked egotistical men. She said to the waiter, “Can I have—”

“What are you doing?” Henry snapped at the waiter. “I told you what we wanted.” He waved at him to go away.

August and the waiter glanced at each other, her order on the tip of her tongue: a grilled cheese sandwich and iced americano. Women of her generation had the power of voice and choice, yet August was a prisoner to the cage of her mind. Would Henry leave because she appeared picky? Was he here for the food or the date? Thoughts whirled in her head. She slumped her shoulders in submission and handed the waiter the menu. It’s okay, she thought. She would get her regular order another time. 

The waiter bowed his head in respect and disappeared behind August. Guilt stirred in her core for she secretly wished to follow him and escape the date that seemed to promise misery. Awkward silence coiled around August and Henry. As every minute passed, August glanced at the door, wondering if she should bail. Maybe she could say “I need to use the restroom” and flee through the back door. She wished she were brave enough to do that and envisioned how the date would end: Henry would claim this was fun and do it again, August would agree, and neither of them would ever text each other for a follow-up date.

August smirked at her imaginative scenario until Henry drummed his fingers loudly on the table. He uttered, “Where’s the damn food?”

Good food takes time, August thought in defense.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Henry said sharply. “I’ve been working nine hours and haven't eaten anything. Cut me slack and drop the high-maintenance attitude will you?”

You’re cranky because you’re hangry? August held back the laugh that bubbled in her throat. “Excuse me—” Her voice cracked as her giggles threatened to spill. She made her way down the hallway to the restroom, where she calmed down. She didn’t want to give a bad impression to Henry, but, honestly, how did quiet women stay composed with elegance and grace? From the corner of her eye, she spotted the blaring red exit sign, a sign of temptation to give in to her desires and flee. She beelined for the door and grabbed the handle. Wait... Her purse was still hanging on the back of the chair. She groaned at her stupidity. Leaning her forehead against the windowpane, the coolness kissed her warm flesh, such a tease as she craved to be anywhere beyond this threshold than that table with Henry. 

“Are you leaving?” the waiter said.

August spun around, her long blonde ponytail flying over her mouth. She spat it out, cheeks warming when he chuckled. He stalked slowly toward her and outstretched his hand. Her purse dangled.

She blinked. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I’m a good observer.”

The door to freedom was like heaven’s light at the end of the tunnel. August could walk away. It was an easy thing to do…but, she stood stockstill. Was she a coward like her ex? Could she leave without a word?

“Well,” the waiter said, “what will you do?”

Bravery and confidence might’ve been missing in her bones, the fibers of her DNA, but one thing she could count on was sticking through to the bitter end. She squeezed her purse with determination. “I’ll stay.”

“I see…” The waiter walked away, and August wasn’t sure if disappointment coated his words.

After returning to the table with what dignity August scraped together, she hung her purse on the back of the chair and sat down.

Henry adjusted his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, groaning. “Look, I didn’t mean to be harsh. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t want to reschedule because I wanted to go on this date…with you.” He slid his arms across the table and grabbed her hands. Disgust roiled through her, though she kept as still as stone. He said softly, “You didn’t need to cry. I’ll be more gentle.” His thumb skimmed like a feather over her knuckle, as if suggesting how the rest of the date would be. “Especially once I get food in my stomach.”

As August pulled away, Henry tightened his grasp.

“Your order is ready, sir,” the waiter said the last word with a bite, holding the tray of food. He seemed like he wanted to dump the order on Henry’s head. 

The warm scent of a toasted buttery croissant distracted her discomfort. Entwined with France’s pride of croissants was a whisper of roasted coffee and rose petals. An unusual combination yet it intrigued August even more. She gazed up into the waiter’s dark eyes, his black bangs a centimeter above his eyelashes. The way he looked at her felt like a protective shadow embracing her from behind and nestling its chin on her shoulder.

The waiter set down Henry’s plate and beverage first, then proceeded to give August’s. Her meal carried the scents of melted cheese and buttery toast that stirred her hunger and solidified comfort. She stared in shock at the grilled cheese and iced americano awaiting her. How did the waiter know? Did she say her order out loud?

Henry pointed at August’s plate. “We didn’t order that. Can’t you do your job right?”

 August glared at her blind date, then gazed softly at the waiter. “Thank you.”

He gave a small smile, but it brightened his eyes like an awakening star amongst the twilight. “You’re welcome…” He walked past her. “...August.” Her name on his lips was a spell that bound her to him, like autumn wind softly singing through her golden sunlight hair. She wanted to listen to the untold song of who he was. Where did he come from? What sorcery did he use to decipher what August truly wanted? When the waiter disappeared into the kitchen, a part of her wilted, hoping he’d return soon, either to refill the water neither she or Henry had sipped, check in on how their meal tasted spoiled under the awkwardness—anything.

Henry scoffed. “How hard is it to take orders? He’s probably been waiting on people all his life.”

She clenched her fist underneath the table, breathing in the spice and aroma in the air, breathing in the courage to spite him, but exhaled through her flared nostrils, the words deflating in her chest. As the women centuries before her did, she endured with silence, a smirk here and there, pretending to be interested in Henry’s babbling nonsense.

August dipped the grilled cheese into ketchup and bit into it. A burst of warmth and salt and crunch was blissful. She sipped her iced americano, and the salt balanced with the bitterness, a perfect harmony. A bite here, a sip there, she paused to dab her lips with the napkin when the waiter reached for the glass over her shoulder and replaced it with a refilled iced americano. If she leaned her head back a fraction, she would meet his chest. From the other side of her shoulder, he reached forward and set down a small plate of meringue cookies shaped into delicate roses. He whispered, “Enjoy.” His voice caressed the back of her neck, sending a thrill and desire through her, like alcohol warming the body as the toxins take reign.

As the waiter left to tend to other customers, the clatter of something that had fallen made her turn around. August thought it was her purse until she found a leather notebook as red as fresh blood. While Henry continued babbling, she picked it up and flipped through the papers underneath the table. Polaroid pictures had been taped to the front and back of the pages. Did it belong to the waiter? The contents of the pictures were a collage of women, mostly from the backside as if the photographer preferred to watch from afar, where his mind could fantasize these women’s life story—lies that suited his fancy. The women had the same shade of golden hair spilling over the shoulder and the same hourglass figure. August paused at one picture and inspected closely: a woman wore a blue spring dress, bluebells etched in the fabric, a gold chain highlighting her petite waist, and luscious hair tied in a ponytail. 

August glanced from the picture to her attire. Coldness cascaded down her limbs. She gripped the edge of the table. Pain flared in her palm, but it was okay since it grounded her more than the chair she sat upon. These pictures…

Each one was her. 

Every outfit she had worn since the first day she visited the Dark Rose cafe.

“Miss,” the waiter said from over her shoulder.

August slapped the notebook shut and hid it underneath the table. She forced a smile, replying, “Yes?” Their eyes met, though she fortified an invisible castle wall between them, not letting him gaze too deeply into the windows of her soul. If she was the princess in the tower, he’d be the stranger beyond the walls. 

The waiter slowly angled his head, as if he could read her body better than her and knew she was distant. He combed his pianist fingers through his straight black hair, his kind, polite demeanor changing as the direction of winds in the mountains. Cold. Harsh. He pressed his hand on the table in front of her, his other on the back of her chair, leaning in and towering over her. His shadow slithered along her skin and clothes possessively. “May I have my notebook back? It’s quite private.”

“So is my privacy,” August murmured, though the anger in her voice faltered. “And personal space.” His cologne, subtle and addictive, teased her nose, drawing her into him, but she glued herself to the chair.

The sharp scrap of Henry’s knife cutting across the plate raked down August’s spine. She expected Henry to utter something rude to the waiter, and this time, she’d welcome it. But instead, Henry glanced up from his meal to the waiter and August and resumed eating with big mouthfuls. Before August could muster her voice, Henry wiped his mouth with a napkin, then tossed it on the plate speckled with crumbs. “Thanks, babe. I’ll Vemno you later.” He winked—the jerk had the gull to wink. He walked out of the front door, the entrance bells at the top of the door jingling in his wake.

Were blind dates a way for free food and an ego boost? August scoffed, fists trembling on her lap. Was she a hooker offering services to men free of charge? First, her ex used her for housing. Now, Henry smooched lunch off of her. She rubbed the ache in her chest that burned and burned. Was there something wrong with her? Did she give off the wrong message to these men? As she tilted her forehead downward to rub her frustration, the waiter lowered himself, and she found herself nestled in the crook between his shoulder and neck. His warm breath of cinnamon and nutmeg brushed the shell of her ear. “August, blind dates make you look cheap.”

Fire roared in her chest, the flames licking through her veins. August gripped his collar, glaring into his eyes, casting Hell’s inferno to devour his soul. “Get away from me.”

Hurt pinched the corner of his eyes. Ever so slowly, as though giving her a chance to redeem her command, he backed away, retracting the shadow cast over her. The part of his shirt she had grabbed, over his heart, was a mess of wrinkles.

How much longer should she endure in silence? When should she draw the line between what men do and self-respect? Mother had said men were roses that needed care and affection, but it seemed like their thorns kept piercing August, leaving her bleeding, beaten, and alone. She grabbed her purse and set the amount down for her meal only. No tip.

With a graceful spin, August sashayed to the counter, knowing the lingering coldness between her shoulder blades was the waiter watching her. She slid the notebook to the owner of the cafe, parted her farewells, and the name of her attorney. Beads of sweat gleamed on his temple, and he apologized profusely.

August stalked past the waiter and to the door like a gardener heading out to rip apart a rose bush. Mother had said some roses came from diseased bushes, and no amount of soil, fertilizer, or mother nature’s caress could save them from their demise, so a gardener must remove what won’t blossom and begin anew. Jingle. Jingle. August departed the Dark Rose cafe and donned her sunglasses as the sun greeted the new her.