ff#55: The problem with flowers

Image via Online Plant Guide

She pressed her nose to the white blooms — though not too close — and inhaled the intoxicating scent. It reminded her of Southern things: delicate women having tea, floating over perfect lawns, parasols wrapped in gloved hands, perched just so, warm deep drawls all mint and juleps.

She reached up and parted the leaves, eyeing the blossoms for the fullest one, the one with the strongest scent, the one that called her. It wasn’t hard. They all vied for her attention. The problem with flowers, with women, is that the most beautiful were often the most deadly. In moments she’d made her choice. She angled the shears with awkward gloved hands that the ladies of bygone days would have put to shame, and snipped.

There. Perfect.

It was only when she’d tucked it carefully into the wrinkled plastic bag and tied the top, leaving the hardy gloves on for good measure, that she realized she’d been holding her breath. She released it with a whoosh.

Back home in the safety of the kitchen, she filled the pot with water and set it on the stove. As the flames licked its bottom black, she untied the bag and began twisting off the petals and leaves, dropping them into the water. While it warmed and the scent rose, leaving the kitchen redolent with sickly sweetness, she rummaged through the cupboards for spices—a stick of cinnamon, a small handful of cloves and a couple chai tea bags. The honey she’d add later on.

She wasn’t sure how long to leave it, really. There’s only so much the Internet will tell you and only so much of a trail you can leave. She figured leaving it at a rolling boil for 10 minutes before tossing in the tea bags for a few more would suffice.

She floated over perfect wood floors to the dining room where they kept the good china, seldom used. This was a special occasion. She arranged the pot, the cups, the honey bowl on the tray and swept back into the kitchen, at once anticipatory and nervous.

She filled the tea pot with the strained liquid, then filled her own cup with iced chai tea, hold the ice, and warmed it quickly in the microwave. It was the same colour as the tea she’d concocted, close enough to pass. She stashed the gloves and the bag and the soggy clippings beneath the sink and washed her hands again just in case. The tea made the porch table picture perfect.

Ready? Ready.

She called for him then and waited. But he didn’t come. Called again and waited. But he didn’t come. Her brow furrowed. She rose and stepped into the kitchen. Called again and waited. Silence. He wasn’t in the study when she looked, wasn’t upstairs.

She stepped back onto the porch again, already course-correcting, and started. There he was, handsome as ever, stirring his tea idly as if he’d always been there. “You scared me!” she exclaimed with a huff. He smiled winsomely. “I’d never intentionally scare a lady,” he said. “Come. Sit.”

She slid into her chair and returned a lopsided grin. “You started without me,” she observed. “Never that,” he said. “So why all the fuss? What’s with the noon day tea?”

“I have some news…”

“News?” He quirked his eyebrow, bringing the tea to his lips, then sipping with obvious pleasure, watching her over the lip as the warm liquid worked its way down .

She sipped, smiled hesitantly.

“Yes, news,” she said.

“So spill it already.” He chuckled.

He sipped, two more big ones, and refilled the small cup.  

She sipped, sipped again.

“I’m pregnant.”

It was as if the proclamation had unleashed a force of nature on the other side of the table. He exploded out of his chair, knocking it backwards, and leaped across the table, smacking the glass from her hand. It splintered to the floor in a hundred pieces.

Realization dawned at the same moment her stomach clenched and wrenched in pain. She slid to her knees.

“Nooooooo,” he cried. It was an animal cry, one he didn’t even know had come from within. He cradled her in his arms. “I’m sorry. I thought you were… I thought… You’ve been so… I thought… I’m sorry!”

She smiled tiredly up at him. “It wasn’t… It wasn’t yours anyway,” she whispered, fingering a stray shard of china, wondering who would move the clippings now before the police came.

This is a work of fiction. Flash Fiction Friday is a weekly writing prompt exercise led by Elisha Bartels. She posts them on Fridays to her blog and social media and writers use the trigger words to write a short piece of fiction. They post to their space and share with Elisha, tagging others in the group where possible. Feel free to join in!