The Old Man and the Rose

The old man stood and wondered where they kept the red roses. He brushed his head. A pinch of snow settled on his nose and he patted it off.

The sidewalk of a city is a good home to many charming delinquents and other strange creatures of the street, but the old man was still out of place. He stood pressed to an antique lamp-post, hands as limp as his back was stiff. Only the snow did not part for him.

His feet shuffled forward, guided by the will of Lady Chance.

The city for him had long lost its boyish charm, but for the fresh visitor, many sparkling shops and bright new clubs promised good cheer, warm drink and forgetfulness of the cold outside. The city was coming alive with the morning. A cart with some hot sweet crossed the old man, also laden with the day’s papers. A pigeon took off from his path, its flaps the loudest noise in his ears.

He turned a corner and bumped into a fire hydrant. He stood quizzically for a moment, hands on its sides. The red reminded him. He needed a rose.

Foggy mists had blinded his past self, but one moment stood crystal clear. If he closed his eyes, it was all his weakened mind could conjure. He rested for a moment and he was there again, a young reflection in the café glass. A rose on his lapel, clear sight in his eyes. He pushed the door open, and there she was in her crimson dress. Bright eyes lifting with her smile as she saw him.

How strange it is that time speeds up when one has fun, but in that café, time appeared to stand still with her. An eternity they spent that day. But the man was old, and he had lived long enough for it to be no longer than a moment now, a moment that had nourished a lifetime.

He opened his eyes, a familiar street greeting him. He was puzzled. Surely he remembered this crossing, and the old building behind him. How strange.

He moved to cross the road, footsteps eager against cold concrete.

Yes, he remembered this! A little to the left, by the chocolate baker's, down the alley next to the little house!

He came to stop in the dark, for light of man and nature had yet to find its way here. But he did not need to see, for his eyes were already closed, memory sharper than sight.

He ran his hand along the oaken sill. He passed through the empty door frame. She beckoned from the corner and he joined her, somehow sitting on a sole surviving stool.

A little later, or was it long? he left and reached the light again. He was resolute. He would find a rose. Leaving the safety of memory, he wandered again, loose in the wild city.

After a while, he spotted a display of red, purple, yellow and all the other colors he remembered. He eagerly walked in, a giddy smile on his face. “I want a rose.” he told the florist.

“What kind of rose do you want?” the florist asked pleasantly.

The old man was taken aback. He knew no kinds of roses. “I want a rose.” he said again, trying not to sound plaintive.

The florist shrugged and then jerked his hands, a rose appearing in each, one red and one white, practicing on the first client of the day. The old man was not surprised, he knew the same trick in his youth and it had served him well. Not with her though, she was different.

The old man grabbed the red rose and thought that something was wrong with the other one. He shook his head and made to leave.

“Hey! Hey!” the florist called after him, “You have to pay for that!”

“Pay?” the old man’s hand instinctively slapped his back pocket, fruitlessly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t have the rose then.”

He grudgingly handed the rose back and a moment later he was in the snow again.

His aimless path down the street took him next to a restaurant. He peered in and saw a bouquet of roses on a clean table. He brightened, those were free, were they not?

He pushed his way in and grabbed a rose. As he triumphantly marched for the door, he was accosted by a man in a waiter’s uniform.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” the man snarled.

The old man held his rose closer, “Nothing.”

“You can’t just take one of those.” the man raised his voice, “Will you be eating here?”

“…No.”

“Then you can’t take what you want!” the man forcefully grabbed the rose from the old man’s hands. A crimson trickle ran down the old man’s thumb, he looked at the tiled floor, almost ready to cry.

“Oh, go on! Let him have his rose.” a voice spoke out from a table. The old man looked up, it was a lady, nearing half his age.

“Ma’am, I assure you…” the waiter began. “Just give it to him,” she cut him off, “or I will leave.”

The waiter shot a glance at the old man, fiddling with the rose. “Now.” admonished the lady. Scowling, he thrust the rose to the old man and disappeared quickly into the kitchen. The lady winked at the old man and returned to her meal.

The old man walked out, simply thankful for the rose.

It was several hours more before they found him, still wandering on the pavement, a wide smile on his face, hair drenched from the snow. A modest black car pulled up next to him, he could hear the shouting inside, “No, it was lucky this time and I swear if you take your eyes off him one more time…” the car’s door opened, “there you are dear.” she said.

She took his arm and gently steered him inside. She frowned at his smile, “What happened to you?” and got in from the other side.

As they got on their way, he took her hand and placed the rose inside, crooked at one place. His smile widened.