Tuesday, October 06, 2009

An Cion Go Dtí Seo

I left a vase of roses to rot on my kitchen table last Tuesday. I should have thrown them out once their petals drooped, but I was drooping with them and I hadn't the heart. Or the stomach. I hate the smell of dank water and my skin crawls at the thought of touching their slimy stems. I sat for a few minutes, looking at them, wondering how I might fold them so that their stalks wouldn't tear the bin liner. I didn't want to touch them. I thought I might smother them with a paper bag.

I didn't realise that I was crying until a tear tickled the side of my nose, making it itch.

I wasn't crying about the flowers. I'm not sure what I was crying about. I left them there and went for a walk. I stole a cigarette from his sock drawer and stuck it behind my ear, then spent ten teary-eyed minutes searching for it before leaving the flat.

I had calmed down by the time I reached the Rathmines Road, but I smoked it anyway. When I got home, I made tea and took it to bed with me. He called and said that he was sorry not to be there, sorry that I was alone and feeling so low. But I was glad. He shouldn't have to hoosh me arse-first out of every ditch.

He was home and elbow-deep in dishes when I got in from work on Wednesday. The flowers were still there, looking like a prop of Miss Havisham's. He hadn't wanted to throw them out without my say-so. I wondered, for the 385th time, what I have done to deserve a man so considerate. I worried, briefly, if I deserve him at all.

On Thursday evening I sat staring through the snot-smeared windows of the 128, taking in the misery of the North Strand road and a city clogged with taxis. I'd finished my book. I'd forgotten my headphones. I was running late for Fat Fighters and edging closer to that dangerous deadline whereby you have to wait til the meeting's finished for your pat-on-the-back weigh-in. The bus driver dumped us on Hanover Quay. It had taken us twenty minutes to cross the bridge. "But I need to get to the far side of Rathmines!" I hissed as he hurried us off his bus. He didn't give a fuck. His day had been long enough.

I had blisters biting at my heels by the time I reached Camden St. I stopped at a stall to pick up some strawberries for tea. She was finishing up for the evening, plastic packing crates and slim black buckets filled with flowers. I thought of the roses, and asked her for four sunflower stems. And for the first time that day, I smiled from the soles of my shoes.

"How did she get them already?" he wondered, seeing the yellow bloom against my red coat as I came down the cast-iron stairs to the front door. Inside, on the kitchen table, he'd laid a bouquet of lus na gréine.

12 comments:

Conan Drumm said...

May ye never lose it, that empathy and synchronicity.

Fiona said...

Jay-ziz. I'm nearly crying myself now. I have similar difficulties with getting rid of flowers. The stems never fold right.

conor said...

wow. and don't be sad

AA said...

lovely. the post and the two of you.

Kitty Cat said...

That was such a lovely post, he sounds fantastic altogether. Brilliant.

Also, I'm beginning to suspect that I live really close by.

artfreak24 said...

Awwwww. My heart broke just a little to hear you were so sad. Then it mended itself back together for the sunflowery end. Loved it.

Anonymous said...

Sounds like he's a keeper, hold him close...

(In tears)

Great writing

Rosie said...

he's a grand fella. i'm a lucky girl.

problemchildbride said...

Lovely, Rosie, Lovely you and him. Just lovely.

Anonymous said...

Flowers die when they reach the end of their time. Love dies when it reaches the end of its time. We die when we reach the end of our time. Your post is overly sweet and sentimental.

Andrew said...

Anonymous (the 2nd one) - Got dumped recently? Having spent Thursday at the funeral of a close friend I imagine Rosie is well aware that people die. You sound like the kind of poxbottle who should probably fuck off back to teaching writing to Cradle of Filth fans, and stop thinking your attempt at worldly wisdom means anything to anyone.

Rosie said...

banal aphorisms have a shorter shelf life than Aldi roses, Anon. my post may be overly sweet but there's nothing insincere about the sentiment.

gallant Sir Andrew, shield your sword. tis only an anonnymouse commenter.