The 47th Monday, he saw the room. The room for the flowers and I could see his only urge was to run away to a cool, orderly place, but I had no interest in stopping him, we continued the ritual: Monday. Parking Lot. Evening. Come heat or come cold.
The way it ended was absurd and quick, just the way it begun, he told me he had another dream, how he rowed in a boat to a tropical forest and there, he saw a giant falling tree and the image of me , decapitated as a child and him, an old man, perched over me looking into my eyes, but they had gone away from me, my eyes were not my eyes anymore.
It was easy to say goodbye, the journey was over and it was something we knew, both, at the same time, South Pole to North Pole, until the 243th time which would be our last, I was, in actuality counting, but we were feeling done, together, individually complete, we both loved unequally at times, perfectly equal and awkwardly until the end.
I remained with the plastic flowers he had asked me to throw away so many times. I had taken a five year break and now it was time to decide what to do with all those things, inhumanly nostalgic ugly things. So I decided to investigate about that white haired woman before discarding them, I called all my aunts, nobody knew who she was, nobody remembered her being there, I started doubting her existence, starting feeling like I too have had a dream, a dream of someone who impersonated something, unnamable but needed at the time. A dream fairy maybe, a weird dream fairy of the immortal and repressed.
I decided to give up the ghost and throw the flowers on the street in front of my house, the show was surreal, the neighbours were in shock, they didn’t know what to make of the whole “street filled with plastic flowers thing”, something so incredible it eluded their sense of normality and boredom, for once there was a gossipy excitement in the air.
They even covered it in a local radio show, they said something of a miracle had happened and pinned it to a tragic love affair with mysterious protagonism and since I liked the story, I let them believe it was so. The irony was to walk past my flowers each day alongside the weirdos and tourists it attracted, knowing each flower meant a death and not some cheesy love poem.
Seeing it was “good business”, the neighbours arranged them in a nice way and made it an attraction, the “Flowers of Unrequited Love” street they called it, and so one of the neighborhoods with the worst reputation turned into a magical haven of tourists and refreshing beverages.
I took out my sadness, I emptied my soul and there it stood, for all to see, as some sort of joke and for the first time, I felt light so I laughed with everyone else, I smiled and wondered where did all those ugly flowers come from, I did not remember either, the myth had taken over reality, as it often does.
A few months later David called, he was getting engaged and since we parted in good terms and kept texting each other funny cat pictures and insipid pleasantries, he wanted me to meet this girl and give him some sort of motherly blessing.
I agreed, knowing it will be yet another masochistic shit I might later turn to regret. Matter of fact, the girl was a boy called Raymond and I could not object to any of the love he displayed for David, they were, indeed, home for each other.
I missed my ugly flowers that day but I decided to change, I had to stop the plastic flower “sniffing” drug like crazy, it was, after all , a nasty and destructive habit. Now I collect pictures of far off constellations, where it is cold but beautiful, here I go again from the South Pole to the North, alone.