Two roses. Pink. I would
describe them as salmon-pink, but one, it’s too cliché, and two, I don’t think
salmon is that shade of pink. Actually, I don’t think salmon is that pink at
all. That is, unless you cut it up for sushi, but then, what sort of fish isn’t
pink when it’s cut up and stuffed between rice and dried seaweed? I’ll just
take a minute here to Google this. One minute. I take that back. The sockeye
species is a bright pink, like a flamingo. But wouldn’t that shade of pink be
considered “flamingo pink” instead?
Roses smell like fresh rain and a good red wine. At least, I think so. It’s got bitterness, mixed in with freshness, and depending on who gives them to you, a tang of sweetness. Who says romance isn’t a mixture of all of those things?
He held them as if they were going to die on him, and he didn’t know whether or not to clutch it tighter or looser. If he clutched it tighter in his hands, he might squeeze the life out of them. If he held them loosely, what if they slipped away and wilted in his hands?
This was three years ago. Around this time of year, where snow is packed hard on the sidewalks and the passengers silently curse every person who got on and off the bus for letting in the winter wind. Three years ago, in late January—maybe early February, on the Coralville bus. The blue one. I don’t feel like describing the type of blue. Use your imagination. I’ve seen him around the city before. I can’t quite recall where, perhaps Java House, reading a newspaper as he’s waiting for a coffee, or perhaps walking around the Old Capitol Mall with a woman at his side. He had Leo DiCaprio’s 90’s hairstyle, rusty brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. He walked like a young man, confident and with ease, but with age etched into his face in the form of wrinkles that should not be there at his age. Or perhaps he is not young at all, but an older man with vigor and youth in his blood?
Roses smell like fresh rain and a good red wine. At least, I think so. It’s got bitterness, mixed in with freshness, and depending on who gives them to you, a tang of sweetness. Who says romance isn’t a mixture of all of those things?
He held them as if they were going to die on him, and he didn’t know whether or not to clutch it tighter or looser. If he clutched it tighter in his hands, he might squeeze the life out of them. If he held them loosely, what if they slipped away and wilted in his hands?
This was three years ago. Around this time of year, where snow is packed hard on the sidewalks and the passengers silently curse every person who got on and off the bus for letting in the winter wind. Three years ago, in late January—maybe early February, on the Coralville bus. The blue one. I don’t feel like describing the type of blue. Use your imagination. I’ve seen him around the city before. I can’t quite recall where, perhaps Java House, reading a newspaper as he’s waiting for a coffee, or perhaps walking around the Old Capitol Mall with a woman at his side. He had Leo DiCaprio’s 90’s hairstyle, rusty brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. He walked like a young man, confident and with ease, but with age etched into his face in the form of wrinkles that should not be there at his age. Or perhaps he is not young at all, but an older man with vigor and youth in his blood?
Three years have passed, and
I can still remember the scent of the bus—warm, doughy smells of bread; winter
wind mixed with the beginning droplets of sweat, resting on the brow and neck
of the passengers who were squeezed up at the front of the bus; and the
suffocating aroma of cheap cologne or perfume worn by the college student,
still too self-conscious and eager to be considered an adult. I felt heat
prickle at my skin; heat that would retract as the blue doors opened and
closed. I was sitting across from him, casually eyeing the Flamingo roses, the
romanticist part of me hoping that this was for some true love, and the cynical
side making snide side comments about how this plan was a failure from the
start.
If I had to wager a guess, he’d be 32, impoverished, and madly in love with Donna, who was a waitress at the local diner with a pleasant smile, who also took offense when he told her that she was as beautifully plump as a peach. Which would be why he was on the Sky-Blue Bus with two Salmon-Pink Roses in his hands. It’s the type of situation you would see in a romantic comedy, where Jennifer Aniston falls in love with so-and-so man; he offends her in some way, but then makes up for it later with a huge bouquet of flowers and a declaration of everlasting love. As if that wasn't cliché enough. But this story would be different.
Donna wouldn't forgive him. She's sick of his lackluster, empty, and shallow apologies. He learned it all from romance movies. He would apologize, and then return to being lazy, thoughtless, and a breathing lump on her equally lumpy couch, stained with her baby's vomit. Just thinking about him made her nauseous. Even more than sickly-pink shrimp made her sick. He'd arrive at her house with the flowers, and she'd take one look at him through the peephole, roll her eyes, open the door, grab the flowers, throw the flowers and curse words his way, and then slam the door in his face. He'd try several times afterwards. She'd stop answering the door.
Lens shattered. This story is different. It’s not a fairytale romance.
If I had to wager a guess, he’d be 32, impoverished, and madly in love with Donna, who was a waitress at the local diner with a pleasant smile, who also took offense when he told her that she was as beautifully plump as a peach. Which would be why he was on the Sky-Blue Bus with two Salmon-Pink Roses in his hands. It’s the type of situation you would see in a romantic comedy, where Jennifer Aniston falls in love with so-and-so man; he offends her in some way, but then makes up for it later with a huge bouquet of flowers and a declaration of everlasting love. As if that wasn't cliché enough. But this story would be different.
Donna wouldn't forgive him. She's sick of his lackluster, empty, and shallow apologies. He learned it all from romance movies. He would apologize, and then return to being lazy, thoughtless, and a breathing lump on her equally lumpy couch, stained with her baby's vomit. Just thinking about him made her nauseous. Even more than sickly-pink shrimp made her sick. He'd arrive at her house with the flowers, and she'd take one look at him through the peephole, roll her eyes, open the door, grab the flowers, throw the flowers and curse words his way, and then slam the door in his face. He'd try several times afterwards. She'd stop answering the door.
Lens shattered. This story is different. It’s not a fairytale romance.
I can’t decide which one I
like better.
