Day 30 of StoryADay September (the last one!!).
The Prompt:
Jeff was walking
to the parking garage after work when he comes upon a flower stand full of
beautiful roses. Jeff decides to buy a dozen roses for his lover.
Jeff slows to a stop, the riot of color drawing his eye. Roses. Red,
yellow, white, pink. Blue? He reaches out, glides a finger over a velvet petal.
If red signifies love, and yellow friendship, what does blue mean?
“Hey,” Jeff calls to the man behind the stand, competing with the ear
buds planted in his ears. The man pops one bud loose, releasing a stream of
thrashing guitar into the air. “What do the blue roses mean?”
“I don’t know man,” he shrugs. “I’m just here to take the money. Why
don’t you Google it?”
Jeff watches as the man replants the dangling bud. He has a fleeting
thought about kids and work ethic, then realizes there are probably only five
years between their ages. He takes the kid’s advice, pulling out his phone and
typing blue rose meaning into Google.
When the entry appears, Jeff’s eyes bounce from the text on his screen
to the roses and back again. These aren’t supposed to exist; blue roses are a myth,
white roses tinted with dye. Fake, in other words. The color represents mystery
and the unattainable.
Jeff pulls a single blue rose from the basket, lifting it close. The
blue was deep, rich, evenly spread throughout the petals. He doesn’t think they’ve
been dyed. The rose taps his nose, perfume crawling into his thoughts. He
closes his eyes. “Bridgette,” he breathes out her name.
Jeff’s eyes open, focusing on the kid again. Jeff lifts a hand, waving
it to get the kid’s attention. “A dozen of these blue.” The kid pulls a sheet
of green plastic from a stack, bundles the roses and twists a rubber band
around the bunch.
“Twenty-four.”
Jeff slides the cash from his wallet, trading the kid for his prize.
They are perfect. Just like Bridgette. Jeff nods at the kid, then continues to
the garage and his car.
As he drives, the scent of the roses fills his car. He has to fight
back the images of her to maintain sight of the road in front of him. He sees
her, looking back over her shoulder, her eyes skimming over him. He sees her,
lounging by the pool, lowering her book and sliding her shades to the top of
her head to look in his direction. He sees her, tipping her head back, a laugh
bubbling up, oblivious to how it affects him, makes his toes curl in delight.
He pulls to a stop at the curb, walks to the front door and rings the
bell. He hears the dead bolt click free, then the door swings open, bringing
them face-to-face. Finally.
“Can I help you?” Bridgette asks as her puzzled eyes take in the
flowers and the man’s face behind them.
“These are for you,” Jeff says as he pushes his way in and kicks the
door closed.
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