A Flower Blooms in Springtime

“Roses – a classic man!” The cashier at the flower shop flicks his wrist with a flourish that gives Walter whiplash. He grunts and hands the man a crisp twenty dollar bill. 

“Oh! So sorry, that’ll actually be forty-four ninety-nine for the bouquet.” The cashier wrinkles his nose and gestures towards a fluorescent yellow price tag next to the rose display. Sure enough. Christ, all that for a couple of flowers that are wilting as they speak? Whatever. Prices have gone up in the last quarter-century, Walter supposes. He rifles through his wallet, his slow, knobby fingers fumbling to decipher each bill. One, two, three, five…

“We also take credit!” The cashier chirps. Reluctantly, Walter hands over the Visa he tries never to use. The transaction is over in seconds. “Have a great day!”

Walter hasn’t purchased a bouquet of flowers in twenty-six years. This is because, for twenty-six years, he hasn’t had a reason to. Today, he still isn’t entirely sure that has changed – but forty-four dollars and ninety-nine cents later, he’s committed to breaking his streak. He takes a seat towards the back of the Q train and spends the one-hour ride from Sheepshead Bay to Manhattan toggling his gaze between the red roses in his lap and the faded gold wedding band melded to his finger, doing his best to convince himself that this foolhardy gift bought with borrowed money isn’t the ultimate act of betrayal. 

When he reaches his destination – a red apartment door – he tugs at his coat, straightens his pageboy hat so it sits snug and low across his forehead just the way he likes it, and knocks. Footsteps approach just as he realizes his sweaty palms have fogged the plastic wrap around the flowers. He tries to wipe the condensation away as the door swings open, but it’s too late. There she is. She is completely terrifying, and her smile, the one she’s wearing right now, makes his knees buckle – even the titanium one.“Walt!” Her silver curls flow behind her shoulders as she lunges to embrace him. “So lovely to see you.” 

“Yes – Gayle, hello,” he manages in fragments, immobilized by the smell of her. Lavender, he thinks. He should have brought her lavender. With that regret, he thrusts the bouquet towards her. 

“Oh, for me?” Walter nods. “Oh, Walt. They’re just beautiful. You shouldn’t have.” Shouldn’t have? Walter hopes she didn’t mean it. She invites him inside while she fills a flower-printed vase with water. He eyes the vase. Isn’t that a little… redundant? He refrains from saying this aloud. 

“Now, these actually remind me… so I know we said we’d go to lunch today, but I have an idea.” She puts her hands up in surrender. “If you don’t like it, you can just give it right on back to me, it’ll be like I never said anything at all. Okay?” 

Walter nods in agreement, but he feels his blood pressure rising. A lover of steady plans, Walter had picked out not only the restaurant they’d have lunch at, but the table they’d choose; he knew exactly how the afternoon sun would sift through the far left window and onto their faces, golden but not blinding. He knew exactly what he would order – a turkey BLT, health-conscious but not wholly un-fun, and not as potentially sloppy as a pasta or a salad. 

“The cherry blossom festival – it’s happening now, over on Roosevelt Island. It’ll be crowded, I know, but it’s just so beautiful. And we can take the train! So easy, a quick fifteen minutes.” 

More flowers? He has to forego his perfectly lit table and turkey BLT for another train ride to a crowded place with more flowers? Forty-four ninety-nine, apparently, is the modern price of one dozen red roses and having your plans soiled; a bargain, really. His eyes meet hers as his brow starts to furrow, but her smile remains in full force. If he tries to stand here and say no to that smile, his lips will – rightly – work against him. “All right, sounds like fun.” Do people still lie on first dates? He imagines so. Dates. He catches himself. Ridiculous. 

An innocuous fifteen minute trip to Roosevelt Island unmasks itself to reveal a forty-five minute beastly debacle. The only station leading to this bizarre, in-between place is teeming with camera-armed mothers and screaming children, teenage couples draped over each other, rogue twenty-somethings who will use anything as an excuse to drink like fish during the day. Six trains – six – have come and gone before they can wedge their way onto one; even then, Walter feels unfamiliar bodies pressed against him from every angle. He does not look around to see which parts are making contact, nor to whom they belong. Seeming to sense his discomfort, Gayle laughs and presses her head against his chest. Lavender. For a moment, everything else falls away. 

Just for a moment, though. As it turns out, the promised land is little better than the subway: all benches taken, a speaker spewing rock music at war with the bright pop emitted from another that’s mere feet away, the same raucous intonations you’d expect at a goddamn theme park. A baby wails at Walter’s feet, hugging his mother’s leg with all his tiny baby strength. “Sorry,” the mother mouths at him, not even attempting to cut through the noise. 

“Oh my goodness.” Gayle covers her mouth with both hands. “Isn’t it wonderful?” 

Isn’t what wonderful? She’s probably delusional; it’d be fair, too. That’s the kind of karma someone deserves for turning their back on their spouse – finding out that the object of their fresh desire is clinically insane. Very Fatal Attraction, but with flowers instead of dead rabbits. Walter moves his head from right to left, searching for the dancing unicorn or pot of gold she must be seeing, but all he gets is a lackluster park with patchy grass and far too many bodies taking up the only potentially pleasant spaces. His stomach growls. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, okay, but I don’t really see what the big deal is here.” He puts his hands in his pockets and turns away from her to avoid seeing his words on her face. 

Then, sunlight floods his eyes. The top of his head is barren; he’s under attack. His hands flock to his balding head in search of coverage. He turns around and around, blinded, until he sees Gayle with his cap in her hand, smiling that smile. He squints at her. “What – the..?” he stammers, reminding himself not to cuss. 

“Look up!” 

Walter does as he’s told. All around his head in an endless parade, pink and white blossoms reach fearlessly towards a bright blue sky. With his chin upturned, Walter becomes part of it all, swimming in an ocean of dancing petals, breeze, and sunshine. It feels… wonderful. 

He looks at Gayle; without the brim of his old hat in the way, he can see her and the flowers at the same time. That look, the look she’s giving him now, with a half-grin and a light in her eyes like a peephole to a luminescent soul – it’s the same look she’d given him just a week ago, when she’d dared to ask him out for a coffee at the close of the widow’s support group they share. Bold move, he’d thought, but he was too dazzled by that very look to turn her down. That, and a part of him was deeply glad she’d asked; no one ever had before. Over cappuccinos, they’d bonded over a thunderous loneliness they both knew, a kind of sudden onset sadness deeper than so many would ever encounter. He’d divulged his fear of motor vehicles, a confession he’d never spoken out loud before, and she listened, nodding along as though it was the most rational thing in the world. For the first time in twenty-six years, this woman and the way she looked at him made this cranky old man, who’d long ago made peace with his place in the world’s backdrop, feel seen. 

Gayle sprawls her arms out wide and starts to slowly spin, never breaking eye contact with the sky, the flowers, the great beyond. Like Walter, she’d lost the love of her life in an instant. The culprit was a brain aneurysm – a senseless, inexplicable cruelty – yet here she is, arms wide open, blossoming amidst it all. Maybe she is insane. She must be, a little bit, but her crazy makes Walter want to be crazy, too. But how can you get there? How can you reach towards the sun with abandon when you spend your days alone in an apartment built for two, a place dusted with memories you can’t bear to stir? The pink-pillowed seat where Ellie sipped her coffee in the morning and her tea in the afternoon. The heart-shaped sauce stain on the area rug she insisted they never clean up. Her favorite pair of ballet flats, waiting for her just beside the door. As it turns out, twenty-six years spent staring at scraps of your best friend and hating the drunk driver who took her from you can sour a man. 

Walter looks up again, squinting, to try and rejoin the flowers. He takes a deep breath. An arm settles around his back, cradling it. A familiar feeling. For a moment, he believes it might be Ellie’s. Then, reality settles. He winces, then breathes, feeling the new warmth of Gayle’s touch. 

“See?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you like it now?” 

“I do. Very much.” Looking at her again, Walter adds, “Can we come back next week?” 

Gayle frowns, though the twinkle in her eyes stays. “We can’t, actually. They won’t be here anymore. That’s why I wanted to come today. They only bloom for a few days, these flowers.” 

“Oh,” Walter’s heart sinks for a moment. “I see.” The truth hangs heavy in the air. Walter looks around again at all of the people on the little island. Suddenly, they didn’t seem so bad. He eyes a bench in front of them that’s opened up, a smile tugging at his lips. He grabs Gayle’s hand and holds it, even though he knows he’ll eventually have to let it go.  “Can we stay a little longer then?”