The Flowers on Her Nightstand

I can't bring myself to crawl into bed. She bought the sheets, the comforter, and the pillows that I hate. She slept on the side by the window, she said she liked to watch the cars pass by. The bed is empty without her, emptier than I thought it would be. There's a dip in the mattress where her body should be lying in, a small imprint molded to her scrawny legs and curved hips.

Flowers sit on her nightstand. She bought them a couple weeks ago. She came home laughing as she set them down and kissed me, she kissed me deeply.

"So you have something nice to look at," she grinned.

They were pink flowers, they were beautiful flowers. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and I kissed her. I should have memorized the way she tasted and the way her tongue would slip into my mouth. I should have kissed her like it was the last time I would ever get to, I didn't know it then but it was. The last time I would ever touch her, hear the raspy sound of her breath, it was the last time for everything.

The world ended and I died with her.

I want to throw the flowers out. They're dead anyway, they've been dead for a while. The petals are starting to dull and the water inside the vase has turned a murky brown. I don't have the courage to pick them up though. I imagine them sitting there for the rest of my life.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the window. It's a small window, just like everything else in this apartment. Though now it all feels too big. I can see the cars on the street and the way their headlights bounce off the glass. Was this the view she watched each night? I almost believe it's her breath fogging up the glass, soft and smelling of mint toothpaste. Of course it isn't though, as much as I wish it was.

I want to cry, I think about crying, I can feel the sadness lump in my throat but that is where it stays.

Grief has settled in my bones and has no intention of leaving.

She wore glasses. She only wore them at home, she had horrible vision. They were red with thick frames. They made her look old, older than she would ever get to be. She kept them in the second drawer of her nightstand. She would wake up each morning and loudly dig through her drawers until she found them. She would always wake me up by doing so, I used to hate it. I was never a morning person the way she was but she would turn to me and kiss my wrist. She was beautiful in the morning. I should have woken up earlier and stared at her a little longer, maybe then the ache in my heart would subside slightly. I should have done a lot of things I didn't. I thought we had forever, I thought she would wake me up with her obnoxious rummaging until the day we died. She always loved to be first, even now she beat me to it.

I pull myself up and open the second drawer, there they are. Ugly and red. My hands are shaking but I pull them out anyway. I stare at them a second more before I slip them on. My vision blurs and my head starts to hurt. I shuffle to the window and press my forehead to the glass. I can't see anything but blurred colors. I miss her more now, I miss her so much I think I'm going to fall apart. I wish I did, I wish my skin slipped away and my blood spilled on the carpet.

My legs start to give out and I sink onto the floor. The flowers are inches away and I pretend I can still smell them. I picture her walking to the market and staring at the row of plants. She could never decide on anything, her mind was always spilt in two. But somehow she decided on these flowers, she picked them up with her delicate fingers and paid the five dollars I'm sure they were. She came home, happiness rising in her chest until it exploded on our front door.

"So you have something nice to look at."

She left me flowers. She left me an empty bed and an even emptier apartment.

I close my eyes, though it doesn't matter since I can't see anything anyways. I sit there smelling flowers that don't exist.

I imagine her opening the door to our bedroom and finding her way to me. She slips her hands around my waist and hums against my chest. I'm wearing her shirt because I know she'll tug it off and we'll slip into bed whispering each others names. Her hands will find my breast and mine will find her hips. I'll kiss her and tell her I love her. I'll tell her I want to grow old with her, I want to wash her hair and scrub her back, I want our bedsheets to smell like her perfume and I want her to stay.

I open my eyes and look up at the flowers, pink and dead.

The world outside has grown quiet and I picture the trees mourning with me. I half expect the world to crumble and the sky to cry. I touch the dying petals and watch them fall. I move to the bed and slip underneath the sheets and face the window. I try to curl my body the way she did but the mattress knows I'm not her, my back starts to ache. I can still smell her perfume, it's faint but there. I slip the glasses off and open the second drawer of her nightstand and place them inside. I stare at the flowers and inhale deeply.

I'll buy her pink flowers tomorrow and set them on the dirt she lays beneath.

"So you have something nice to look at," I'll whisper.

I cry while looking at the flowers on her nightstand.