He Should've Known I Was a Wildflower

Roses, daisies, tulips, and lilies — they do not blend well with me.

I have a laundry list of names who tried and failed miserably. What they will never know is that I am not romantic. I am a dreamer. I dream of flying across the Atlantic Ocean to relive the Renaissance in Italy, feel the iridescent water of Zakynthos beach on my skin, and shop until I drop in London. I dream of buying a home in Tennessee, where I once lived as a child. If I yanked myself off my roots, I’d become one with the sky.

They will never catch my drift.

I met someone a while ago. I wouldn’t say he was drop-dead gorgeous, neither was he plain. Albeit his personality smoothed over the lumps and softened his gray areas.

He once bought me chocolates and a plump red rose when it was not Valentine’s Day. The gift felt underwhelming. However, the chocolates came in handy one Sunday morning. I cozied in my armchair and watch reruns of “I Love Lucy” from 10am to one in the afternoon. As for the rose—I watched its soft red petals shrivel until it was chalky and pallid. There was nothing else to do to save it. I simply slipped the rose into a cheaply made vase half-filled with tap water from the kitchen faucet. Who could raise a fine red rose in the dead of the New York winter?

By the third date, he wanted me to meet his parents. Oh, God! I thought. He was not the first to tell me so. On the contrary, I could be the girl a guy might bring home to dinner. I have enough worth to fit the status quo.

We hung out where we usually did — strumming our guitars to the sound of our disconnected melodies in a music shop downtown Brooklyn. It was a long walk from our initial meet-up in Prospect Park. The blue of the sky had already blended into the typical pink and orange hues of the early evening. I stopped strumming to look at him. I nearly lost grip of the flimsy pick clenched in between my two fingers. I could not wrap my head around what he had just said. “What!” I blurted. “Why?”

“Why not?” he rebutted.

“It’s only our third date!” Not to mention if I was still interested in a fourth one. I hadn’t made up my mind if I was bored or wanted to entertain the idea of being something to someone.

I did meet his parents. Their impractical monologues of how “perfect” I was bombarded me at the dining table. “So sweet!” they emphasized. They said it was good for little Johnny to find him a girl to keep him walking that straight and narrow. I wondered if they ever smelt the stench of cannabis on his lips or noticed the heightened yellow hue in his demeanor. I maintained my pageant girl smile, carefully saying, “please” and “thank you.” I was glad when I finally went home, but he didn’t leave without walking me to my door.

Sometimes, I still feel his kiss pressed against my lips. I cringe every time I think about it. I watched him go for the sake of courtesy, but he believed it as romantic. When headlights dimmed into the night, I sighed in relief and went off to bed. A month or two dragged as I mulled over excuses like, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then I’d reprimand myself, saying if I keep throwing away boys like used toys, Karma will kick my ass. Finally, I mustered the courage to be a woman and end it with class.

Fast forward to spring break of this year, I met someone on a bus ride back home from Harvard. Every word he said was thick with London’s prestige. He was a confound violet. At almost every wisecrack, I laughed, and it felt genuine. My heart fluttered as he constantly nudged my arm, making sure that my wonderstruck eyes never left him. I listened about his love for James Taylor and the personal collection in his room back in London. “Rainy Day Man will always be a classic!” he said to me. I told him of the 80s collection in my phone made up of songs like “Living On A Prayer,” “Africa,” and “Just Like Jesse James”.

I remember how he looked at me. He said, “It fits you.” I smiled because of how warm that made me feel. He wanted to know more about anything I told him, like my biggest dreams, the stories I’ve written, and the stars I’ve counted that made up the states I lived in. He was infatuated with my bold shade of red. If I didn't know better, I would have loved him.

Something slammed in my chest, and I rolled my eyes to myself. Couldn’t the trip last a little while longer? Well, at least he did. He helped me into the taxi patiently waiting outside the Port Authority. His hand lifted mine to his face. His soft lips so sweetly pressed against my skin. With a lilt, he whispered, “Good day, luv!” The feeling that crossed me was like traveling across the Atlantic when I only crossed state lines.

The conversation with the London Boy gave me an epiphany of what I was missing. I don’t belong in a bouquet. I rather not gifts like roses and chocolates. I don’t want to be swept off my feet, metaphorically or literally. I crave spontaneity and adventure like a stimulant. I want to dance in the rain of “ifs” and “maybes.” To the one who will find me in the end—I swear I won’t run so long as you keep me on my toes. Be warned, I will always have my home in the wind, ever far from your reach.