The Tale of Two Flowers

'I can’t believe that in my six years of frequenting this bar, I have never once seen her.’ I thought to myself. Every Saturday since I turned 21, I've been sitting in the same lesbian bar at the same stool, hoping to find someone new. Hell, at this point, after almost 5 years, the bartender had even put my initials on the stool. I began to fawn over this beautiful girl standing just a few feet away in a baby blue party dress that fit her like a glove, and complimented her complexion perfectly. Her eyes were a deep, emerald green, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. Not that she needed to, she was perfect as she was. Her mousy brown fell in soft waves down to the small of her back. I wondered if her hair felt as soft as it looked, and accepted the fact that I may never know. She smiled when the song 'Put Your Head On My Shoulder' came on, and I nearly fell out of my stool. It was the look of pure, contagious joy, that really made me want to know her. ‘I should talk to her… We're in a gay bar, so she's definitely gay. So I don't really have an excuse to just sit here and yearn from afar’ I reasoned with myself. I stood up and after going to the restroom to make sure my bright blue hair was in order, and my dramatic black eyeliner wasn't smudged, I approached her. “Uh… Hi there! I saw you st-standing there and thought you looked really pretty.” I said, just loud enough for her to hear me over the music. I was fiddling with the sleeves of my red flannel shirt. I was ready and prepared to make a run for it, being almost certain she'd laugh at my pitiful attempt at flirtation, when I heard her instead say “Thanks! What's your name cutey?” She thought I was cute?And that voice. Sweet like honey and smooth like it too. She sounded just as pretty as she looked, and she wanted to know my name? Be still my beating gay heart. “My name? Oh, it’s Rosalie, Rosalie James. My friends just call me Rose though. What’s yours?” I asked nervously. I was quite curious to see whether her name would match my perception of her. She seemed soft and delicate. Or maybe flower-like would be a better description. Maybe Lily? Or perhaps- “My name is Delilah. Delilah Hamilton.” She interrupted my thoughts, though I wasn’t upset by it. I would sell my soul if only to hear her voice one more time. I recalled the “Miss Delilah” water lilies from my book of plants, and thought about how their beauty could never compare to hers. I wondered if she liked flowers, and what kind she might prefer. I managed a confident grin, much to my own surprise. I tended to be a nervous wreck. “It’s nice to meet you! Did you maybe want to dance with me?” I asked. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I sounded timid. Despite this, Delilah blushed softly and giggled, seeming to find my shyness to be adorable. “I really would love to, especially because this song is one of my favorites. But I'm terribly clumsy, so maybe we could just sit at the bar and talk instead? I'd love to get to know you a little Rose.” "Yeah, of course!" I said with a nod, and we went back to the bar. And there I sat, at the same bar, on the same stool, in the same little town in Ohio. But things were different now. This time, there was a gorgeous flower of a woman sitting before me. Delilah leaned forward and showed genuine interest in the things I was telling her, something I wasn't quite used to. She seemed particularly interested in the full sleeve of flower tattoos I had going up my arms and shoulders so I took of my flannel to show her. It gave me chills when she ran her soft, petite hands all over my arms. She told me about her pets, a St. Bernard named Charlie and two frogs named Emerald and Spring. She told me about her love for frogs, and I found it endearingly adorable. When she asked me, an average looking butch lesbian, out to dinner the following night, I could hardly believe my ears. I said yes of course, but I could scarcely understand why she, a goddess, would want to go on a date with someone like me. I'm a clumsy, dorkish, flaming gay. But she claimed that I was one of the most interesting people she had ever met, and that certainly boosted my perception of myself. She only lived a few blocks away from the bar, and her place was on my way home anyway, so I offered to walk her home. This was an offer she accepted, and so we left the bar soon after. On the way home we talked about where she was from and why she would want to move to a little town like this. She told me that she originally lived in Virginia, but moved to be closer to her sister and niece. I thought that was admirable and told her so. I told her about my work as a therapist, and that I worked with teens because I felt like it would be a great way to help the future of our country. All too soon, we reached her house and I had to say goodbye. We exchanged numbers, and I walked home feeling dazed. This all felt so unreal, though I knew it was. They say you can't feel pain in dreams, and I hit my arm on a tree due to not paying attention. As I went to bed that night, I hoped to dream of her. And I did.