Ever have one of those phrases or something someone says just paint a really vivid picture for you? I heard a snippet of conversation . . . and on my tired drive home from the office tonight at some ridiculous hour, this is what the snippet turned into . . .
He sat on the bed, head in his hands. Drained. Could smell the touch of Jameson’s on his own breath. He looked up at the sink across the room, where the flowers sat bathing in water. They looked like they were trying to crawl out of the sink toward the trash can to throw up. He smiled that twisted, wry smile that comes to your lips when things aren’t funny, but you don’t have the energy to cry. “I know how you feel,” he thought, staring at a particularly bedraggled daisy.
Not everything survives this kind of winter. Certainly not a bouquet you leave in your truck all night as you wander aimlessly trying to figure out what to do next. Apparently not this last relationship either. The flowers should have been tucked inside one of her numerous crystal vases in the warm apartment; the only thing tucked in her warm apartment now was Eddie. She said she couldn’t meet him for dinner tonight; had told him she had to work late. He was surprised when she wasn’t at the office when he came by with the flowers and some Chinese takeout. Not half as surprised as when he drove past her place, and recognized Eddie’s car. The same one she used to complain about. The same Eddie she said was history.
He ran his hands through his hair. Winced. His fist still stung. He had thought about punching someone. Maybe Eddie. Instead, he had punched a stop sign at the end of her street. Could still feel the ice cold metal. He got up to go run his hands under warm water, then remembered the bouquet was still in there. Reminding him.
Not everything survives this kind of cold.