the first flowers a man gets are at his funeral | a short story

"The first flowers a man gets are at his funeral," he says.

I swear, my heart tears right down the middle. When he throws his bag over his shoulder, starts his car and heads off to work, I walk a block to the market down the street.

I buy lilies, tulips, roses, red and white. I buy sunflowers, peonies, bouquets of flowers I don't even know the names of, but I don't care. The grocery store clerk looks at me like I'm crazy, but I don't care. I smile and say, "The first flowers a man gets are at his funeral, and I don't want that for the man I love."

I walk back to our little apartment, bagging hanging, swinging from my forearms, leaving indentations in my skin, no doubt. But I don't care.

I get back and I decorate the place, tucking roses beside the microwave, tulips by the TV, peonies along the couch, sunflowers on the bedroom dresser. I spend an hour grinning, smirking, arranging bouquets of flowers everywhere.

He returns that evening and puts the car in park. I stand in the doorway, waiting for him, my heart playing hopscotch in my chest. He walks in and at first, it's a look of surprise and confusion. But it quickly transforms into joy.

"What did you do this for?" he asks.

"You! You said the first flowers a man gets are at his funeral, and I didn't want that for you."

He steps towards me to kiss me and then –

I gasp.

I jolt awake in my bed. Darkness, no flowers. Just darkness.

I look to his side of the bed. It's empty. I didn't make it in time to fill his apartment with flowers. See, we broke up the day before. If only I'd had a couple more hours.

The first flowers a man gets are at his funeral, and I'm haunted by the fact that I never made sure that wasn't so.

~ julia