You surprised me with a garland of jasmine on a rainy day, and said it was because you knew they were my favourite. During the monsoon, these garlands were available cheaply at every traffic stop, yet elevated from the mundane by their heavenly fragrance.
Spider lilies dominated the floral arrangements in every vase at home. From my bedroom window, I’d watch the exotic varietals of cherry blossoms that somehow thrived in our summer, bright pink buds dancing the blur of greenery like bokeh in 3d. My mother would sneer at the odd ‘vulgar’ red rose that occasionally made its way into the bouquets my father got her for every Hallmark occasion, but I secretly thought they were romantic.
I had never received flowers from a boy before. I took the garlands home and draped them over the corner of the headrest of my bed. They made for aromatic sleep for the next three nights.
It became one more thing in our list of things; my ‘favourite’ flowers on a rainy day, a spontaneous walk to the local tea stall, a phone call every other week, because you couldn’t wait for another day to tell me this latest most amazing idea you’d had. Innocuous, inexpensive, and random gestures of kindness and consideration. Nothing I could point to as proof of favour. Nothing to see here, folks, just two people in each other’s orbit in the present moment.
There were no gestures on my birthday, no calls, and certainly no roses, vulgar or otherwise. You were nowhere to be found on your own birthday. No Hallmark occasions for us. There was no ‘us’. We talked about everything else, but that.
I came down with a fever on a cold, precipitous weekend. I lay in bed, watching the thunderstorm shake those cherry blossoms. I was thinking of you. There was no reason for it, and no reason not to.
You hadn’t called all day. No call for it. The doorbell rang and when my family answered, they found you dripping on the doorstep, shielding a thermos flask of soup under your raincoat, holding your bike in the other hand. You had ridden ten miles in this weather because you thought I might need it. I felt something in that moment; something I understood that I wasn’t allowed to feel. Something we didn’t, wouldn’t, talk about. I think you saw it in my face.
You began to pull away. To disappear for longer. To drag new people into our orbit. To make plans, and to cancel on them. The whispers started. About her. About you and her. About Hallmark holidays and red roses. Always, always with a sideways glance at how I must be feeling. I knew then, what the jasmine garlands really meant. I wanted to believe that you, that someone, anyone, would pay enough attention to know what flowers I liked. You took a shot in the dark, and that’s all it took for me to construct a fantasy and let it fly me away.
It was time to come back down to earth. The last time we met, it was as passing acquaintances.
The florist smiles when I walk into his shop. He reaches over for the long stemmed white roses, the glossy lilies. After all this time, he knows what my favourites are.
