text: “Look at that couple,” she said, motioning with her head, both hands clutching my arm. “Look at the flowers he gave her. That’s so cute.” “You’re cute,” I said. She blushed. “You know that’s my favorite gift?” she asked. “Flowers?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “You never give me flowers.” “I will someday. When I feel like it. I’ll surprise you.” She nodded and pulled my arm tighter, content with my answer, confident that I was speaking the truth. I never did. I walked down the sidewalk sheltered by the awnings of angled building fronts. The sun cascaded in golden ropes through the slats of benches, spilling across my shoes. I felt good. I whistled to the music playing in my ears. I had my whole life ahead of me, a life I could live on my own schedule from now on. I’d just skewered the last of my social obligations and was on my way home to my new life of I don’t know what. Books, movies, games, contented loneliness. My thoughts drifted abstractly to the girl in the apartment I just left, crying out on the bed that she was still in love with me, but I shrugged it away, sliding my hand into my pocket and fingering the playing card I’d taken from her night stand moments earlier. I’d been using as it as a bookmark for as long as I could remember, and had forgotten it the last time I spent the night with her. She was crying into her hands when I stealthily snuck over and retrieved it. For whatever reason it was important to me. She deserved better. That’s why I left. I drew a draft of brisk October air into my body and reminisced about our last break up six months ago, and how that one didn’t stick for more than a couple of weeks. We’d been fighting for a while, nothing major, but consistent enough to be an ongoing issue. We were just incompatible as romantic partners, it seemed. We were both too absorbed in our own worlds to make any concessions for each other’s, and our worlds were far too different to begin with. She lived in a state of constant social stimulation. She always needed to be doing something. She was so busy all the time, and when she wasn’t she made herself so. Last Christmas I gave her a bracelet. Nothing fancy, just a band of twinkling silver that I thought would look mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. It came giftwrapped and bundled, so I didn’t see it again until the day we exchanged gifts. I smiled as she opened it, and I saw her smile. We smiled together for a while, but when she tried to put it on we noticed the tiny little clasp that came with it was broken. I was right though; it looked mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. She set it aside, promising to get the clasp fixed as soon as she could, and we enjoyed the rest of our evening. Apple cider doughnuts and peppermint tea. A gingerbread house kit we never built. A few months passed and she still hadn’t gotten it fixed. I brought it up every time we were together. We fought about it. She said she was too busy, besides she didn’t even know where you were supposed to go to get a bracelet fixed. The fucking jewelry store, I said, they’re all over the place in the city. Eventually, I got tired of waiting, so I went myself and purchased a pair of silver clasps. They were twelve bucks. It took less than five minutes. There’s no way she could’ve done it herself. Not a chance in the world. Not five minutes to spare in three months time. We broke up before I gave them to her. I ended up handing them over a week or so later when I went crawling back. She eventually relented and another week or so later we were back together and happy. We slept together and it felt comfortable and right. I was twenty-four years old. That was six months ago. Feels longer. I’m twenty-five now. I looked up at the awnings, at the birds nests stuffed behind light fixtures. They looked comfortable. I was fine. I wasn’t thinking about the bracelet anymore. I wasn’t thinking about all the things I could’ve or should’ve done. Then something caught my eye, a bouquet of colors lighting up a grocery store window, colors you could smell, flowers. I’d walked by that grocery every time I visited her for the last year, but this was the first I’d ever seen them selling flowers. I stopped cold, shivering, overcome by sadness and failure. My throat closed; I coughed pathetically, rejecting some pill. In front of me, flowers, of all shapes and colors, strewn seductively, beckoned me toward mild memories of the last two years. Days and weeks and months flashed by. She graduated school, she received job offers, we celebrated birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, her father passed away. Gifts were exchanged, support was given, love was made. And yet, somehow, throughout our entire time together I’d never given her flowers. Not even once. My own negligence dawned on me like a sunrise, slow and peaceful, standing outside the grocery store window, falling apart. Opening night. The show was a success. Months of hard work and planning came together. The reviews were sure to be good. We had a few awkward drinks with her crew. They told me how great she was to work with. I nodded and said I knew. I wanted to leave. I felt stupid, out of place. I couldn’t be in her world for even a single night without wanting out. I was light-headed. I’d forgotten something important, but what was it. Something I’d meant to do. Something I’d meant to bring her. To show her I cared. That I was proud of her. I guess I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t. Buying flowers downtown was so expensive anyway. I walked to the train, my eyes peeled for a flower shop. There were none around, so I didn’t get any. Didn’t even check my phone. I didn’t want to go out of my way. She slept next to me, snoring. On her desk a single flower stood in a glass jar full of brown water. Not from me. From someone she worked with. To show her they cared. I came back together and entered the store. I pulled instead of pushed, went red as a rose with embarrassment. I walked over to the display that housed the flower selection and perused them delicately. The distant, chalky smell of their petals hitting me like the first breath of air surfacing from the deep end of the swimming pool. Artificial shades of red, pink, yellow, cream wrapped in cheap plastic bundles, twiggy stems held hostage by wire twist ties. They were the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen. I picked up a large bundle of white chrysanthemums and let their vapors consume me. Barely conscious of what I was doing, I bought the flowers and exited the store. A wire attached to the underside of my belly yanked me back in the direction of the apartment where a girl sat, still crying over me, trying not to hate me for putting her through this again. I entered the building and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. My heart raced. I prayed that she would still be hidden away in her apartment, that she would not be standing out in the hallway to see me approaching her with those flowers in my hand. The elevator doors opened and I rushed to her door, laid the flowers at the base, and ran for the nearest stairwell. My footsteps no sooner echoed against the metal slats of the stairs than tears began to sting my eyes. I felt no sense of redemption or comfort with what I’d done. I wanted it to be some grand sign of finality, a tying up of a loose end, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It just made me impossibly, pathetically sad. Later, when I tried to tell my friend about it, I burst into tears all over again. I regretted never buying her flowers while we were still together, and now I’m trying not to regret buying her flowers after ending it. Weeks ago, months ago, it would’ve been a simple act that brought a simple smile to her face. Now, it felt complicated, insensitive. What was I thinking? Why did I wait so long? She deserved them so many times. I want to be here for her still. I hope that she knows that. I hope the flowers can represent that to her. I hope she didn’t throw them in the trash already. I hope they’re sitting by her bed right this moment, comforting her in the same way I always wanted to but couldn’t. Mostly, I hope that while we were together I was able to give her something more important to her than flowers. Something that won’t whither and die in a couple of weeks, even if properly nourished and taken care of. Some sort of seed inside her heart that will continue to grow and blossom, immune to the passage of time, that will see her through the challenges of the future and comfort her when she feels the most alone and maybe, just maybe, one day direct her back into my arms where another, different type of seed can be sown.