i want to give her flowers.
it's such a capitalist cliché, an over-tired gesture. she'll tend to be reminded of a dozen Wal-Mart roses cracked and dried in a plastic sheet gripped by the fingers of some thoughtless bastard. red roses, more than likely. [how-fucking-romantic]. but if i could do it, she wouldn't see flowers. she'd see opportunity in every petal.
i want to give her flowers. a half dozen, to be exact. and not just some pathetic bundle of dyed carnations, god no. each flower would be different, and that would be beauty defined.
white oleander. [caution.]
aster. [daintiness.]
violet. [modesty.]
scarlet zinnia. [constancy.]
petunia. [resentment.]
cyclamen. [goodbye.]
[what a pointless bunch], she'll think to herself. flowers hold no purpose in this world unless they are aesthetically pleasing to the eye. and these, well. these are just all wrong. that is until we get into my car, hit the interstate and roll down the windows.
[throw them], i'll tell her. her eyes will meet mine in confusion and i'll wonder when the last time was that i saw her smile.
[throw them.]
she'll pick out the petunia first, so agonizingly bright in shades of purple that i'll want to vomit. the flower will look so small and powerless between her fingers and the threatening wind, yet i won't be able to stop a shudder of delight from running down my spine in thought of its certain doom.
and then suddenly, release. i'll watch the purple disappear in my rearview mirror. she'll stare straight ahead and ponder about resentment until it is forgotten.
her eyes hint at contentment. finally.
[give me another one.]
and just like that, i'll witness a furious lifting of burdens. she'll rip the leaves from the zinnia and crush the petals in her hand. constancy. [who needs something that doesn't exist?] she'll laugh heartily at the violet and ask me what modesty gets anyone in the end. and the small, proper aster flower will get smoke blown in its dainty face by a marlboro light linked to grinning lips. she'll hold up the droopy yet beautiful cyclamen and tell me, [i'd burn this one if i could.] but instead she'll separate flower from stem and litter the highway with it. and then there will be the white oleander.
[harder to let this one go], she'll whisper to herself. or maybe to me. and then, right then, in the passenger seat of my car, she'll smile. and not some morbidly fake splattering of the teeth across her gorgeous face, no. she will smile. so i'll push the gas to the floor and at a reckless speed, she'll throw caution to the wind, petal by petal.
i want to give her flowers.
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Submission Name: i want to give her flowers.
