Cassandra

Those who love the smell of flowers


When we were younger you thought I was perfect. You thought it the first time when you decided your afternoon was worth wasting just to wait for me. Outside of an old building, you sat in hopes to see me again. This was when we'd innocently approach each smile because we were just learning about love. You, how love feels when someone loved only you. Me, how love feels even with a second-rate heart. We walked to your car and all I could see was rich purple irises and emotion, nevermind the supermarket bar code. You didn't tell me then, but I knew. I could tell it in your eyes.

That was when we fell in love. When nothing else mattered because we couldn't understand otherwise.

You told me I was perfect while laying in bed contemplating my questions, secretly contemplating your future. I could feel the sheets smooth my skin as I rubbed them between my toes. Layer upon layer soothing me into sleep. You laughed at my childhood habit because you loved my quirks. You said I was perfect, gangly tall, puffy belly, button nose and all. You said that you didn't think you were good enough. I would smile and tell you you're perfect. And we agreed.

You surprised me with irises on my favorite holiday--the one that singles despise. I took photographs to remember the smell of the flowers.

Later, when you took me out, because I have fancy dreams of dresses, you showed me I was perfect, even though it was all my idea. You let me know how beautiful I always was, and how wonderful things were over dinner, even in dress shoes and ironed shirts. We pretended to be Four Seasons rich. This was when you would drive 180 miles to see me. I was worth the hours alone. My excitement was enough for the both of us.

When I traveled two lifetimes to see you in the city of youth, you reminded me that I was still perfect. You didn't tell me as I ran to you from the plane, as we waited out the taxi ride, as we opened the door. Despite my objections and disposition, you took work time and surprised me with more flowers.

There were numerous moments when you told me again how perfect I was, how lucky you were. I must have believed you because I started thinking ahead. You started taking care of things for me. The last time you bought me flowers, they arrived all ruined (perhaps an omen), and you helped me have them replaced. I knew you wanted them perfect but only because I expected it.

We will never know the moment where my imperfections broke your rose-colored glasses. Maybe it was when you stopped kissing me goodbye, or maybe it was when I ran away downstairs with the cooking spices, or maybe it was even when you said you'd buy me a necklace on your trip but you didn't. I could only hide for so long in your pink shade. I could only hide for so long how uncertain I was, without your affirmation. I wanted to be everything you thought I was, but I couldn't. I was unhappy with myself, but you could never help me. I covered myself in smiles. You still can't understand.

This time I bought my own flowers, like the first time when you and I became us, supermarket irises, beautiful in their own right. I didn't expect you to do these kind of things anymore. I didn't want to ask either. I had forgotten what flowers from you, from your heart, smelled like. I bought them to liven up the apartment for our impending graduation. These were the only flowers I received.

You were never supposed to disappear, but we started fading into the walls. And I became alone again, unwilling to share that hurt. Maybe I should have not yelled from a friend's house. Maybe I should not have cried in the bowling alley. Maybe I should have waited to really know. Maybe I should have decided before. But I wanted to pretend just for a little longer, that I could still be perfect.