Author's Commentary
Something that came to me as I was walking...
A bit of a small fantasy, I guess...
Eh
It had been years; years since we saw each other, years since we last talked, years since we were in the same room, years since we took a walk together. I don’t know why I was at the party, a get-together of all the people from high school I really didn’t miss. I guess I had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. She was there too; I didn’t know she was back. I was afraid to talk to her, and I wanted to embrace her.
I stood at a distance, and refused to allow myself to look at her. In the corner of my eye, I noticed her frequent glances in my direction. When she looked away, I allowed myself a glimpse. Three years hadn’t changed her very much. I don’t think it did too much to me either. Maybe she was more mature behind that familiar body; maybe I was too.
I sat down next to the arm of a couch, distancing myself from the three people discussing at the other end. I looked at the blank television in front of me, and held my fingers over my lips. I tried not to skew my sight when I saw her legs cross my line of vision. She still walked the same way she used to. In my peripherals, I saw her plop onto the couch, spaced evenly between myself and the group opposite.
Slowly, I turned my head in her direction, and our eyes connected. It was hard seeing her. We both sat rigidly, looking away occasionally and then back to each other’s face. Her lips pursed against her far cheek. I didn’t know what to say either. She gave a nod of her head, which I understood it as well as I did three years prior.
Awkwardly, we walked out of the house together. We used to leave parties early very often. We would socialize briefly, keeping up appearances, before leaving to privately and intimately enjoy each other’s company. We could be together daily, hours on end, and somehow it didn’t tire.
We walked along a sidewalk in the summer evening and it brought back memories. The day’s warmth and the night’s chill were meeting, creating a pleasant feel to the air. The sun was soon to set, and the clouds were just beginning to absorb the tint. We used to watch the sky together. I hadn’t taken the time in years.
Neither of us knew where we were heading. We had left both our cars at the house, which was soon almost a mile behind us. We remained silent, but for the scraping of the soles of our shoes against the pavement. We passed houses and gardens and street signs, and we looked in them for something, anything, to say.
Voices in my head were trying to persuade me. Some told me to talk pleasantly, some told me to talk harshly, some told me to ask her about her life, and some told me to put my arm around her, just as I used to. They rung with the things I had felt over the years. I blocked my ears to them all, walking silently, several feet away from her.
I stopped at a rose bush. She halted a step later, and faced me. There were read roses, and white roses, and I knew she liked roses. I pulled one by the thorny stem close to my nose.
“Stop and smell the roses, they say. Stop ‘n smell the roses.” It came out of me, and I don’t know where from. The words had birthed themselves, and the silence had broken itself. She gave the tiniest smile. I was glad I said it.
I pulled a small knife from the breast pocket of my jacket. I flipped the blade out, the steel edge an extension of myself. I kept it very sharp. I cut through the stem, an inch below the flower. I trimmed away a thorn, and then returned the knife to my pocket.
We started walking again, the white rose in my hand. I held it out to her, and she took it lightly in a cupped hand. She held the flower delicately in her hands, like the fragile thing it was. We walked a little closer together. “It’s good advice,” she said.
Half an hour later we were still walking. We still didn’t know where we were headed, and it still didn’t matter. She was still the Rose of a pretty girl I remembered. I wanted to tell her all the things I still felt for her.
She balanced the flower in her hand, keeping it very, very still.
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