Bitter Petals

You’re eager for that shower, but you gotta let the song finish! It feels too good to cut short, so you let it saturate your ears… Ah, and your soul! To hear the 90s again, even if it’s just for a moment it’s doing you good.

The rhythm walks through your body.

You’re sore!

But tired muscles are no excuse you have to move— though your fibers feel tired and worn.

It’s a sign that you put in good work at the gym.

You step in time— your neon orange sneakers tap against the floor of the car and you are sharply aware of the acid in your thighs.

Pain! But again, that ache is the proof.

You catch a glimpse of your own face in the rearview, and you love the way you look: happy.

You already know how I will react when I see you. You call it now with a silent certainty: when you enter our home I’m gonna comment on your glow.

As I so often do.

Even when you can’t see it yourself, I seem in awe of your brightness.

When the song ends you cut the engine and open the door.

Even here, all the way out in the driveway, you can smell something cooking in the oven.

Cinnamon and a buttery sweetness— you look at our yard and it all seems to fit.

Golden rays of sun are scattered through the maples and oaks. A soft breeze rises, plucking bunches of orange and yellow leaves from those branches overhead.

Falling leaves twirl and dance, down to the earth with gentleness and grace.

The harvest smells drifting from our kitchen through the open windows blend so perfectly— the cinnamon a heady compliment to that leafy, crisp autumn air.

You take a moment just to breathe, to savor this marriage of beautiful scents. It’s like they were made for one another.

You watch squirrels chase acorns and then chase each other.

Then you turn towards our home.

When you come to the door, there’s no need to fumble for your keys, it’s always unlocked whenever I’m home and you’re not.

You’ve never asked me why that is, but on some level you can guess the reason in my mind: Any time you spend in delay— fumbling with a lock or key would be a tragedy to me.

There’s never any pressure, never a text rushing you home….

But the door stays open, just like me: waiting for you, always.

A thought crosses your mind: a never-locked door means I hide nothing.

The realization is both trouble and comfort.

On the one hand, a man with no mystery feels a little boring. But on the other hand, a man who keeps no secrets means you are safe.

You feel a smile flex in your cheeks, and you sigh.

That safety is peace. The peace you deserve.

For a moment you wonder how you got here.

You’d been taught by hard experiences: past loves had been broken but you simply cannot imagine a scenario where I could ever leave or stray.

I’ve told you before: I treasure you more than sunshine, moonlight, music, and air.

The sight of you, the sound of you, the feel of you. You are a miracle, you are art to me.

It’s not that I’m blind to outside beauty, but I might as well be. The adoration I carry in my face, every time I see you… that speaks to a reality and a loyalty I won’t or can’t ever break.

You know it in your heart: I’m immune to anything that could tempt me away, I’d die before I left your side.

There’s an innocence and a fullness in the admiration I show you— and it doesn’t seem to fit what you have known from other men.

For all my flaws in form and practice, you can’t help but admit that it’s good to be with a partner who hides nothing— and whose love is so unabashed.

So full!

When you enter our house I greet you with a smile and sweep you into my arms. I tell you I was kinda cold but now that you’re here I feel nice and toasty. Because of your glow.

You laugh and pull back, you still haven’t showered from the gym.

You say you worked up a sweat.

I say “What a waste! I should have been there with you. Not to work out. No. Just to watch you glisten.”

You roll your eyes, but crack a grin. You say you still stink and insist you gotta wash off.

I say “Never! I’d wear Eau de You for cologne if there was a way to bottle up that funk.”

You laugh at me but I only melt at the song of your voice.

I ask if you wanna quick bite before your shower. You nod and ask if I’m gonna eat too.

I eye you, plainly up and down. “Oh… I could eat.”

You ask what I made.

I offer a sly grin that just comes across as goofy: “Cinnamon buns. In honor of your buns.”

In the shower, you are alone with your thoughts.

And again you’re left wondering how you got here.

Of course you live here. Your stuff is all over the place.

That’s your all natural shampoo on the wire rack.

Hell, you picked out the glass panels with the frosted glass when we remodeled, and the only reason our extra wide bathtub has jets is because you wanted them.

The plants on the window sill are yours too.

Flowers and succulents.

I’ve got some stuff around of course. One of my shirts is hanging on one hook. My bathrobe on another.

I also chose most of the candles, though we only light the ones around the bath on special occasions.

This house is modest, but it’s also a home.

Our home.

Well lived in and that makes it beautiful.

There is comfort here, there is safety, and there is love.

But how did you get here?

How did you come to be here?

You know I bought this home with the money I made off my writing— or more accurately: the money I made off selling the movie rights.

You know I spend most days here, taking care of the house, though we work together on the garden.

You’ve got more talent with that, a better eye for what will look nice. So I follow your lead.

Neither of us have to work anymore, but we both prefer to stay busy with volunteer work, with advocacy, and with our respective arts— not for money since we have enough, but for the love of what we do.

There’s a room in our house that’s pretty much only my stuff: my writing room— a desk I refurbished, a few sculptures and mementos, my laptop and a music system… book shelves, lots of art work on the walls and a few of my favorite pictures of you.

Technically one of these is a picture of us: a selfie you took from our first date. I told you once I didn’t like the way I looked in that pic— but I loved the way I felt, standing next to my dream girl and that’s why I framed it.

As a reminder that being beside you was like a dream come true.

Beside that snapshot is a picture of all our kids. This was from a Christmas past. It’s rare to get them all home now, they’ve gone in so many directions. But they all try to get back for holidays and for your birthday. Your kids and mine, they love each other like siblings now.

And now that they’re all grown they still know this is home and that picture, the looks on their faces, that proves the love they feel when they are here.

And you’ve got a room like this— a studio for your photography work, your poetry and your art, full of gear, plants to keep things fresh, and a computer to plan shoots and keep bookings organized.

You’ve framed some of photos you’ve taken, they’re on the wall too— your friends, your family. Especially you and your sister, as well as photos of your loved ones who have gone before.

And you have pictures of your kids beaming during their graduations.

There’s a picture of you and I too— not a first-date selfie in this case.

No.

This was a picture from our wedding— a candid shot.

The photographer, a friend of yours, managed to get us both mid laugh.

In that picture you can actually see that glow— that same glow that I’m always promising I see in you.

It’s there in your face, clear as day.

You’re brighter than a torch.

It’s almost a tangible light.

And standing next to you, I’m a mirror of sorts. I have a light too, but my eyes are always set on you.

But.

How.

Did.

You.

Get.

Here?

You blink away the memories and you’re back in the present, wrapping up your shower.

You put a little mango lime conditioner in your hair.

How did you get here?

This life feels… so right. But…

How did we begin?

I asked you out.

Of course.

I took you to a restaurant on the beach.

We had grilled fish. With garlic fries and buttered veggies.

You had an iced espresso martini.

I had a pina colada, and ended up stealing a couple sips of your drink.

Wait, what beach?

I knock on the door and your thoughts are scattered.

There’s fog on the mirror.

You cannot see your own face.

My voice comes from outside the door.

“Honey-baby-glow but-darling, you alright? It’s almost time to go?”

There’s a shine coming from behind the fog in the mirror.

A halo.

You ask where we are going.

My voice does not feel so distant or so muffled now: “Sandbar, for our anniversary.”

That’s where we went for first date.

Sandbar. That’s right.

It’s coming back to you now.

We went there for dinner and then we walked the shoreline looking for pretty shells and we talked all night.

But what beach?

You weren’t living by the ocean back then.

How did you get here?

You’re drying your hair now.

You’re wearing a silk robe.

There are rose petals on the vanity.

You are seated before them, in front of the mirror in our room, putting on hoop earrings— the ones I got you last month.

I’m already dressed. I’m sitting, watching you.

I tell you “I put those rose petals there because they remind me of your lips.”

You pick up one petal and feel how soft and how supple and how velvet that natural fabric against the skin of your finger tips.

You press it, gently to your lips and breath that subtle, lovely fragrance.

You look to me and I look back to you.

There is no glow coming from my face, I seem to be wrapped in shadows.

You can see my eyes though, through the dark.

They speak more than my words ever could: I would never hurt you. I would only adore you.

I do adore you.

But there is a sadness in the depths of my eyes.

A longing.

And looking into my eyes you are struck, as if by a hot iron.

You ask what’s the matter.

I say “we need to talk.”

The rose petal between your finger tips feels brittle now, the smell is faded and stale.

It crumbles, leaving a powder against your lips and fingers.

The taste is bitter.

Like matcha powder with no sweetener and no drink.

You look at the other petals on the vanity they are all shriveled and oxidized— no longer crimson, now the color of old blood.

The color of scabs.

A tear blossoms at the corner of your eye.

This felt perfect! Just a moment ago.

You thought we were doing great.

You thought we were great.

You ask if I’m happy.

I say “How can I be, now?”

You say it seemed like I was.

I say “I definitely was. But what we had could never last. Things have changed.”

Another tear rolls down your cheek now.

You see a shimmer on my cheeks too, and you know— you know it in your heart— all I want to do is step away from that shadowed corner and come to you and bask in your warmth and kiss your tears away and hold you close forever.

You stammer and the hurt in your voice makes me wince. You ask if I ever loved you.

My throat catches. “Of course. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. Way back in 2016.”

You begin to say that’s impossible— that we didn’t even start dating until… but you can’t actually remember when we started dating.

You try to picture our faces in the wedding picture on the wall in your studio…

But the glass frame is all fogged up.

Behind the fog there is your glow and my shadow.

A halo and some dimming.

The room itself feels vague.

You ask how you got here.

I cough and sputter: “that’s what I’m trying to talk to you about. You don’t belong here.”

You shake your head, you insist that you love me.

Your lips curl from the pain of it.

You beg me to make sense.

You beg me to snap out of it.

You beg me to keep loving you.

I say “I do. And I will. Always. But you don’t belong here.”

This second shock hits you like a cannon.

You cry out that this is our home!

This is our home, where the doors are never locked and the kitchen smells like cinnamon and rooms are full of warmth and memory.

But here I am, telling you that you do not belong?

You, the woman that I worship and adore?!

I shake my head “how did you get here?”

You say you came from the gym.

In your neon…. green gym shoes. Or…. were they pink?

You feel so scattered.

Ah— that’s it!

You pulled up listening to some early 2000s RnB, a bright winter day. Snow crunched under your boots. You were wearing a cozy scarf— you’d just came from the….

Beach…

And…

I was cooking something, the door was open.

Like always.

Even in the winter?

The food smelled good.

Vanilla?

Vanilla and almonds.

“You don’t belong here.” My voice trembles as though I don’t want to believe my own words.

You ask me how I can bear to say something so heartless.

I say “I don’t belong here either.”

You plead with me you say again that this is our home.

You gesture all around at the walls— the walls of our well lived in home— and you gesture to the plants and the art and our family and the memories…

But… now all the colors are beginning to bleed and run.

Pools of dripping opal and liquid rainbow are gathering on the floor, like puddles of oil after a rainy day.

You look at me, and the way your brow furrows makes me want to hold you close and build it all back up, solid and real as ever.

I wanna stay by you.

I want to hold on as long as I can!

But you ask how you got here.

And I answer you, from the corner where it is dark and not even the rainbow puddles have the strength to shimmer:

“I brought you here baby. Like I do every night. But neither of us can stay, this is just a dream.”

The ceiling is split wide now, and there’s a cold sunlight that sterilizes the walls and abolishes every comfort.

My voice is mournful and weak: “All of this is a dream.”

I gesture to the ruins of our home— even as the walls crumble to nothing.

For a moment we are suspended in bright-lit void.

I stare at you, pleading for you to stay. “This is all a dream and you’re the only part that’s ever mattered.”

I stare at your face, I try to reach out to you but there is nothing left to touch.

You can see the ache and longing in my eyes, even as you fade into the light of day.

And the strange thing is, when I wake I can still feel you: a presence there, a dream so real you hold a place inside my heart— a home deep down where all the doors are open.

And when next I sleep I’ll come home and build it all back up solid and real as ever.

Author’s note:

In the past I’ve had dreams with continuity spanning multiple nights with recurring characters.

It’s so strange to dream a life that feels convincingly real, lived in, and populated— but then to wake and find that all that life and emotion was pure imagination.

Anyway, I got to wondering if the “people” in our dreams are purely imagined third person, or whether they are perhaps “acted out” or animated by part of our own ego or psyche.

Perhaps the people in our dreams aren’t only figments of our imagination but also fragments of our personality— Like split personalities but on a subconscious level?

My big complaint about 2nd person narration is it can feel like the author is telling the reader how to feel.

But I hoped I could excuse this feeling by writing the reader as a part of a dream.

I thought it could make a cool, surreal, maybe spooky concept fiction, having the second person narration be an imagined person, a character within a dream who has a sense of awareness and sentience— even a sense of love and of loss but no real control as “they” fade or recede with each waking.

Anyway, hope it works!

Thanks for reading. as always, I’m wide open for feedback :)