The Floral Arrangement by Susan Gibb

“No, the other one, the little one,” she said. “Si?” The man held up a rose-colored spray of flowers fit for a funeral. “No,” she pointed, “the blue, azure, aqua, blue…” She held the flowers as low as she could but still could not see well around them. Muttered “watch its” and “hey, look out!” synchronized with the bumping of bodies as she ran into one after another to make her way home through the twelve blocks of the city, up three flights of stairs. She kicked the door closed, set the bouquet in the sink. “Shit.” “What’s up?” She turned to look at her lover. “I couldn’t get the flowers I wanted for the dinner table tonight because the man didn’t understand me.” He came over and stared at the sink full of pink. “Sister?” “Oh Lord, I didn’t even see that,” she said and she cut the glitter-written ribbon off the stems. “You can cut them down,” he said, “fill about three vases.” He was laughing. “You’ll get it. These people understand you, they just pretend so they can sell something that costs more.” The roast was burnt. The potatoes glazed with a hard air-dried shell. The string beans were thrown out after they’d waited two hours. “Try again,” she said, and he punched in the redial. He nodded and mouthed, “ringing.” “Hello?” he said into the phone. His face changed and she knew something was terribly wrong.

.

Return to This Week’s Flash