“The way roses love is harsh. They die as quickly as they grow without the proper care. Would you say one loves more than the other?” The elderly woman asked, thumbing through the day’s newspaper with her bony finger. Her almond eyes squinted down at the tiny words on the paper and she grumbled in annoyance. She sat with one of her legs crossed neatly over the other, the floral fabric of her skirt brushing against her calves. Her curly, ash grey hair hung down past her shoulders, tickling her face and tiny wrinkles created paths and messages onto her face. I looked at her in shock considering I hadn’t said anything to the woman since I’d come into the small flower shop. “Pardon?”
“You keep looking at those roses, dear,” she stated simply without looking up from her newspaper. “That’s why I ask if one of you loves more than the other.”
She cut her eyes at me above the newspaper, mouth set in a firm line. I shook my head and replied. “No, I would hope not. I’d like to say that we love each other equally. Why do you ask?”
“Because you’ve come here for the past four days and everytime you immediately find yourself near the roses after about two seconds of looking at the others,” she said, folding the newspaper and plopping it down onto the counter. With that, she picked up a random record without hesitation and placed it onto the turntable with such care, it was as if it were a tiny child she was handling. The record spun, scratching and making static sighs and sounds. Then, the sweet sound of low jazz danced its way into the air. I furrowed my brows, trying to figure out what the woman was on about. “Ma’am, no disrespect at all, but what do roses have to do with me and him loving each other? How did you even know I was in a relationship?”
“Dear, I feel it. Those roses are your way of making up for the lost love and connection in your circumstances. Come here and sit.” I made my way towards the counter and sat on an old, torn stool that stood next to it. She leaned over and smiled sadly, wrinkles deepening. “Like roses, love dies without the proper care. Roses love so desperately but so harshly. They flaunt their beauty, attracting many but cuts the many that encounter them. They’re a toxic kind of love. Your love? Your love is like a broken record, constantly repeating itself. You fall for the same kind until it tires you out. Stop tiring yourself out and buy a new turntable.”
I sat in silence, blinking to keep back the tears that had been fighting to get out. The old woman disappeared behind the counter for a moment and then popped back up, setting a bouquet of small, purple flowers on it. “You need a new flower. Lilacs have never failed me. Let go of what you can’t handle and find someone new. Start fresh.”
I took the bouquet and reached in my pocket when she stopped me. She shook her head and winked, nodding her head towards the door. A sad smile spread across my face. “Thank you for being what I needed.”
I left, hugging the bouquet to my chest, the image of her smile vivid and fresh in my mind. Before walking in the direction of my apartment, I looked back inside the window of the store. The old woman sat with a small, content smile sitting on her face. In her hands was a picture frame. She lifted it to her fragile lips and kissed it. I hugged the lilacs tighter and smiled to myself, letting memory lead the way home.
