Tulips blossom in Spring

March

We blossomed in Spring. That warm Sunday afternoon, our eyes locked across the tulip lake, like two swans finding their way to each other. You approached me boldly, confident footsteps striding to meet their other half. You wore a black, suede coat, blue jeans and a pair of leather boots that made you appear taller. When you finally got close, the palette did not matter. You stopped and stared into my brown eyes and suddenly, all the greenery in the park became your emerald eyes. Hey, I’m Mark’, you said with a smirk, handing me a tulip from the lake. ‘Well Mark…I thought to myself, tulips are now my favorite flower.’

April

You sprinted across the hall today. I was welcoming the guests, but you entered the scene abruptly, grabbing the bouquet from my brother’s hands. You placed your arm around me and kissed me hard, your grip so strong I thought I was your dainty, little flower. Your eyes widened to the sight of strangers, your hand extending for a handshake like a shield before my delicate waist. Then you exited the same way that you entered, boldly, firmly, almost proud that since that very moment, everyone knew we were exclusive. 

During conversations, you held my hand. During dinner, you held my hand. Between ‘letmewalkyoutothedoor’ and ‘thankyouforcoming’, you held my hand. I felt so safe in your embrace, your undivided loyalty to me.

After dinner, my brother called me in the kitchen. He wore a worried look, the kind he does when a student in his class makes a mistake. ‘Hey Ashley, are you sure about this guy?’ Andrew was worried and I don’t know why. I got defensive to his obvious disapproval. ‘Never been more sure’, I replied. 

May

I had to replace the vase today. My eagerness to turn our house baroque did not match your minimalistic style. ‘Too much glass in the house is dangerous’, you said to me, and I wish I knew that before I rushed to the ER with a bleeding finger. 

‘Make sure you apply pressure to it, keep holding it there’ the nurse kept saying to me, but all I could think about was your team’s loss, and not because I care about football. The ultimate moment when your hand flew to the vase, and I screamed, in fear that the glass would not only hurt our home’s ambiance but also myself. ‘I’m so sorry my love, I’m sorry’, you pleaded, rushing and running to our pharmacy cabinet the same way you rushed to greet our guests by the door. Then you held me, one finger on my deep-cut wound, another on my face, calming me down and admitting your stupid mistake. I forgave you, only under the condition that we buy more vases.

At last we got home, and I looked at you like a child who just got hurt in the school yard. I glanced at the now empty space on the mahogany table. ‘I’ll buy another vase tomorrow’, I thought decidedly. 

June 

The sun burns my eyes these days. I feel its warmth on my bedside window, the first few seconds of the day when I feel most alive. I wish I could feel it on my body. Sometimes, I dream of it unfolding its crisp, toasty rays on my pale white knees, but when I wake up, my knees are purple. It has been ten days, but the bruises do not seem to fade away. 

How silly of us to have our first fight in the bathroom. I always forget to buy a rug, and voila, I faced the consequences. I don’t remember why we fought, nor do I know how and why I ended up by the bathroom door, knees on the ground and head held down in agony. All I remember is that Andrew came to see me. 

He stormed in the door like an ape protecting its tribe from danger. I’d never seen him so alarmed. ‘What happened?’, he asked me erratically. His gaze refused to acknowledge Mark’s existence, the look on his face resembling his worried teacher look I knew all too well. ‘I just tripped in the bathroom Andrew, it’s nothing serious.’, I assured my brother, but the look did not go away. Until today, whenever Andrew visits, he still has the same look on his face.

July

Today, you asked me if I love you. We sat in the dining room, my famous lasagna remaining untouched in front of us. I nodded, my head held down in fear that your fist would suddenly end up in my mouth again. I wanted to eat, after all this was my spécialité, but my busted lips made it difficult to enjoy. You started serving the food, annoyed that you did not receive a verbal affirmation to your rhetorical question. You put the food on both our plates and approached me, my flinching reaction as obvious as my bruise. 

‘I asked you a question’, you told me and proceeded to kiss my unnatural lips. It hurts when you kiss me these days. 

‘Yes Mark, I love you goddammit. Can’t you see it hurts to say it?’

Your face turned red, and not because of shame or sympathy. Your ego was more bruised than me. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, it will go away in a day or two.’

I grabbed the fork, and for a moment my impulsive mind urged me to stick it in your bulky fingers. Instead, I cut a piece of the lasagna and started chewing to the best of my abilities, trying to chew the pain away. Maybe you were right. Maybe I was being dramatic.

August 

I’m so happy. Today I’m finally feeling the sun on my body. My eagerness is obvious, but then again, I can’t wear the bikini that I wanted. Red doesn’t really go with my permanent purple blots. 

I go for the one piece instead, the one with the metallic hole in the front. As I’m wearing it, your face of disapproval catches me off guard. 

‘Are you wearing THAT?’

I feel my patience being tested. My voice cracks in the reply, my once-known confidence hiding itself from bullets of criticism. 

‘Yeah, I thought…’

‘You thought what? That my girlfriend is allowed to parade around the beach with an all black corset? Not under my watch!’. I was interrupted by your critical tone, your veins starting to show on your bulky arms. It was difficult to grasp that the emerald eyes I met in the park that day were now part of a green-eyed monster looking at me with envy. 

My body was too numb to react, my mouth still healing from previous events. I refused to look at the green-eyed monster of jealousy, but fixing my gaze on your body language did not make it better. I struggled to understand the reasons behind your reactions, your over possessiveness about me and my being. I wanted to justify you, I wanted to love you and admire you and be proud of the loyalty and security you give me. But lately, I have been running out of excuses. 

The raised hand lowered, and suddenly it was all over me and my black one-piece, and my purple bruises and my half-healed lips. I turned to the side, scanning my surroundings as a defeated cry of help, but there was no Andrew this time, no ally to give me a warning look, a hand of compassion, a teacher’s empathy. This time, I turned to face my worst enemy, staring at me through my bedroom mirror. She looked unrecognizable, her face a palette of red and purple and yellow, like the tulips she once loved by the swan lake. The reflection finally talked. 'You're better than this...' I stared at it numbly, my eyes halfway asleep but my mind realizing one thing for certain; tulips are no longer my favorite flower.