"I like red roses," I declared in the midst of dinner. "They're my favorite." It was a natural deviation from our focus on the meal, pasta with orangish-reddish spaghetti sauce. These pronouncements mattered not. I had told Kenny about my affinity for red roses many, many times. He had just handed me an 4-inch tall bamboo shoot from his venture to Truckee. I responded with an attempt at a grateful grin.
My collection of plant "life" grew in our time together to include a baby cactus from Salt Lake City, 6 pink carnations that looked oddly similar to the ones that used to grace his neighbor's front yard, and your basic easy to maintain indoor plant with 3 leaves - the kind for dummies lacking a green thumb. I don't remember the name. I'm sure he convinced me it was something more exotic than "green plant." "Red rose," I muttered, upon accepting this other piece of half-life. Well into two days of failed efforts to grow the damn thing, I added it to my collection in the kitchen trash can.
One day, though, I did come home to a dozen long stemmed red roses. He remembered. My plugs for red roses had alas been effective. But timing was not Kenny's strength. You see, I had ended our relationship the night before. The break-up was incredibly dramatic and tear jerking. I, for one, was calm and collected through it all. So when I came home exhausted by the prior evening, I picked up the bouquet. They are beautiful, I realized. They are red too, and they are roses after all. The note consisted of a seemingly heartfelt apology, a plea for my forgiveness and a new start. I counted 12, a perfect dozen, deeply red, sweet smelling, and in half bloom. A shiny pink ribbon held them together. I decided I would appreciate and maintain them. As I reached for a vase in the upper kitchen cabinet, I noticed a bright red spot of blood on my right index finger. I dropped my head to eye the stems. Thorns! Damn blood-inducing thorns! To the trash they went.
Perhaps I should have seen that one coming. The flowers did lack the eloquence and serenity of your typical red rose. They well represented the end to a sweet, troubled, exhausting romance. "Thanks for the beautiful roses," I emailed. That was pretty much the extent of it.
At 43, I still await the perfect bouquet. I'd settle for one lively red rose that does not draw perfectly red blood at any point.
My collection of plant "life" grew in our time together to include a baby cactus from Salt Lake City, 6 pink carnations that looked oddly similar to the ones that used to grace his neighbor's front yard, and your basic easy to maintain indoor plant with 3 leaves - the kind for dummies lacking a green thumb. I don't remember the name. I'm sure he convinced me it was something more exotic than "green plant." "Red rose," I muttered, upon accepting this other piece of half-life. Well into two days of failed efforts to grow the damn thing, I added it to my collection in the kitchen trash can.
One day, though, I did come home to a dozen long stemmed red roses. He remembered. My plugs for red roses had alas been effective. But timing was not Kenny's strength. You see, I had ended our relationship the night before. The break-up was incredibly dramatic and tear jerking. I, for one, was calm and collected through it all. So when I came home exhausted by the prior evening, I picked up the bouquet. They are beautiful, I realized. They are red too, and they are roses after all. The note consisted of a seemingly heartfelt apology, a plea for my forgiveness and a new start. I counted 12, a perfect dozen, deeply red, sweet smelling, and in half bloom. A shiny pink ribbon held them together. I decided I would appreciate and maintain them. As I reached for a vase in the upper kitchen cabinet, I noticed a bright red spot of blood on my right index finger. I dropped my head to eye the stems. Thorns! Damn blood-inducing thorns! To the trash they went.
Perhaps I should have seen that one coming. The flowers did lack the eloquence and serenity of your typical red rose. They well represented the end to a sweet, troubled, exhausting romance. "Thanks for the beautiful roses," I emailed. That was pretty much the extent of it.
At 43, I still await the perfect bouquet. I'd settle for one lively red rose that does not draw perfectly red blood at any point.
That's quite a sad and humorous anecdote. Really interesting commentary on relationships in general though.
ReplyDeleteWhy do I get this feeling that you need a spankin'??
ReplyDeleteOh Blase..you have this great knack for reading between the lines and giving me laughter for days on end!
ReplyDeleteTS, yes, trick is to look out for the damn blood-inducing thorns in the first place. Thanks.
Good thing you came to your senses in time!
ReplyDeleteI'm with Kristy!
ReplyDeletePS: Red roses sure are beautiful and receiving some must be awesome! (not by him, but from a nice, lovely (naked) handsome guy...;)
Good riddance. He sounded like a girly man anyway. Crying when you dumped him.
ReplyDeleteThe most beautiful bouquet I've ever received was the day after I told my husband I wanted a divorce. Such is life. Blah.
ReplyDeleteHere's to hoping for a man who brings a dozen on your first date! Then you'll know he's a keeper ;)
Many bouquets will be coming your way in the future. Even more beautiful because they will be presented by the right giver, with chocolates (num)and for no reason other than just to let you know how special you are..
ReplyDeletehugs
a perfect metaphor for all relationships, or things, in life.
ReplyDeleteKristy, Sarah, KW, thanks. Sarah, love your description of the rose giver.
ReplyDeleteLife, wow, his timing stinks too. Amazing (in a bad way) what it takes for someone to finally get it.
Seductress, thanks for the sweet image..holding onto it, with hugs back to you.
Thank you Sarah. We must keep faith in the eloquent, serene ones with no thorns!
Beautifully red, thornless roses plus chocolate kisses to you all!
Robyn
How can I be the first person to make the "every rose has its thorn" Poison comment?
ReplyDeletePerhaps because everyone else was trying to boost my spirits, Copyboy! Nice! lol.
ReplyDeleteCheers,
Robyn
Roses can be quite prickly too! May your receive many roses given in the right manner from a hunk of a man, preferably loaded. Mama always told me is was as easy to fall for a rich man as a poor man. I showed her and married a farmer! Heeeehehhhe!
ReplyDeleteGod bless and have a glorious day!!!
Thank you, dear Nezzy. I have to disagree with your mama, though. No disrespect intended, but it's much easier to fall for a rich man than a poor one.
ReplyDeleteCheers,
Robyn