Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Three

The first day after I met him, I stared at the door with unwavering, patient eyes. The windex-streaked glass stared back at me carefully, gleaming under the clouds and reflecting the high heels and soft-soled baby shoes toddling on the sidewalk. I watched the clouds gather on the horizon and caught the sun staring past me a few times, but Harry never walked by.

On the second day after I met him, I tucked my hair behind my ears and kept my head bowed to read The Feminine Mystique while customers mulled around the store, running their fingers over record sleeves, blowing dust off of shelves that we hadn't touched since the year before. A few times, someone would ask me a question, and I would point them in this direction or lead them that way. 

Winnie sat beside me, filing her nails, touching up her Ruby MAC in the pink compact mirror she kept tucked between her breasts. Howard wandered out of his office only a few times, simply to survey the store or to close the shop up so we could eat our lunch in the sad little break room that held the same green polyester chairs since the day the store opened in 1950.

"Have you ever considered redecorating?" Winnie asked with a mouthful of salad.

I glanced up from my novel, glasses perched on the bridge of my nose. Howard's eyebrows pulled together as if he had not understood the question. His tongue darted out for a moment to lick the crack in his old lips that collected blood whenever he coughed. Then he crossed his arms and stroked his chin, staring in wonderment at the ceiling.

Winnie huffed, crossing her own arms over her chest.

"Well, gee, Winnie. I'm sure some hammocks and television sets would look great out there. What a bright idea from our neighborhood Jane Fonda," Howard smiled, patting Winnie's hand.

"Sit on it, old man."

"You mean the hammock?"

I could not help but laugh behind my book. Then they were both looking at me, expectant. Whose side was I on?

"Would either of you like to hear about the radical idea of women not viewing motherhood or household duties as a full-time career?"

Then I was left alone again, the forgotten girl, the invisible girl. I did not say anything for the remainder of my lunch; I simply raised my eyebrows to watch Winnie and Howard bicker here and there.

On the third day after I met Harry, I sat beside Winnie behind the counter, kicking my legs on the stool, ears open to her discussion of Roy and the many complexities of his thick plots and select vision, but I could not recount a word that pretty bird squawked at me. I was simply engrossed in the heart-thumping thought of Harry swaggering through the glass door, hearing his platforms crush the dust bunnies on the carpet, of feeling his thumb against my wrist.

"When was the last time you had sex?" Winnie suddenly asked. Suddenly, she had completely forgotten about Roy and his movies, and only cared about the stretch of my hymen.

Goose bumps prickled my legs and I found myself blushing, but not from speaking of sex, but because Winnie was totally focused on my answer and I had not managed to hear a word she had said in the past hour and a half.

Pulling my eyebrows together, I pretended to think, but I knew precisely when it was.

It was December 25th, on the night of the annual Wilthorn Christmas party that Grffin's family hosted. I'd been wearing the scratchy velvet dress my mother had bought without asking me and the ring was still foreign on my finger, diamond so large that it tilted to rest on my middle finger.

Even though he had proposed hours before, my cheeks were still hot, and my hands were still shaking. After the initial kneeling and caught breaths, he had pulled me into a long kiss and then immediately told me about the hotel room we were going to share that night.