Short Prose #1

By buchanan_barnes All Rights Reserved ©

Romance / Other

One

The other day my best friend told me about his idea to give the girl he was in love (they were never together though) a flower bouquet made of one yellow rose tucked between five roses. I asked him why five red roses and one yellow rose.

“Well, last time I gave her a red roses she jokingly asked me why she didn’t receive a yellow one.” He explained, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. Marlboro Red was the brand he usually smoked.

I scrunched my nose at his explanation. You didn’t need to be an expert to know that in the flower language, red roses symbolizes love; Yellow roses represents friendship. So if she asked for a yellow rose, doesn’t that mean she just wants to be friends?

He didn’t ask for my thoughts because he knew exactly what I was thinking about this whole idea. It was nothing new though: He always tries to find the most ridiculous gift idea just to remind her that he exists.

Few weeks passed, Valentine’s Day arrived and he sent the girl a flower bouquet: One yellow rose surrounded by five red roses.

Six days later, we met up again. Puffing his Marlboro Red cigarette, he ordered his third beer and stared into the distance. His face expression may be hard like an unbreakable brick wall, but his eyes betrayed all his feelings and thoughts – anger, hatred, confusion but the most obvious one: hurt.

“She said she threw the flowers away, because she doesn’t want to think of me anymore. She wants to forget the last three years and start all over again somewhere else, with someone new. She doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

“Guess she should have asked for a bouquet of cyclamen.” I joked. Out of morbid curiosity, I decided to make myself a bit more familiar with flower languages. Cyclamen means all the good things will come to an end in the flower language.

He threw a glare into my direction. “That’s not funny.” He said. “I love her. I really do.”

I simply shrugged my shoulders and added rather heartlessly: “Well, but those feelings you have for her won’t change the fact that she doesn’t want to do anything with you anymore.”

“I know.” He whispered in defeat “And that’s why it hurts so much more.”

There was nothing from me to contribute to that statement, so I stayed silent. But I did wonder if it was possible that something ‘hurts so much more’. That time, I still thought it was a silly way to describe what he was feeling. If he was hurt, then he was hurt. I didn’t think it could ‘hurt even more’. Maybe my best friend was just being over dramatic, like usual.

Until the day you promised me lots of red roses, but gave me a bouquet of cyclamen instead. You didn’t even bother to hand them to me personally, they were lying on my doorsteps. I still remember clearly how I picked up the bouquet, stared at them as a single tear rolled down my cheek – and with a swift motion, threw the flowers onto the cold hard ground. For a few second the red petals blinded my vision, before they slowly scattered all over the place. What used to be pretty red flowers is now a red mess that cannot be pieced back together. Just like what you did with my heart.

And that’s when I learned what ‘hurts more than usual’ really meant.


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