Pansies. They were the first to go. Whether it was due to the delicate petals, how at a touch theyâd almost crumble, or the way they were favoured to the point of overwatering, they wilted first.Â
You didnât notice until four days into Charlieâs business trip. The sun had risen past the curtains with a stream of light as you looked out into the garden, eyes scanning the horizon before settling on the Pansies. They had turned grey and small, a sign of old age though theyâd been planted mere weeks before, stems draped over the side of the flower baskets as if they were dangling from a noose. Eyebrows furrowed first then your heart began to beat beneath your chest, with a rhythm so sporadic it mimicked a dying light bulb.
Your phone had no messages, well, no messages from Charlie. You knew if anything had happened, someone wouldâve called you. You hoped someone wouldâve called you.
You remembered the first fight, in the same household a floor down, arguing over the kitchen table with content that stretched from work to responsibilities, marriage, children, and maturity. Spats werenât counted in your mind, too minimal to make any impact, too insignificant to change nature. But when you looked outside, the pansies had wilted. Though they still held their colour, the lavender did not.
Youâd thought about giving up on flowers altogether, but an empty garden bothered Charlie and you werenât about to see the life of plants drain away yet again. Wondering was hopeless, too much drove you mad, too little made it feel as if you were settling into a life of insanity.
So, when you looked outside and were met with dying flowers, so spread across the plot of land you had to think back to if youâd ever seen them this way before. Phone shaking in your hand as you dialled Charlieâs number, hearing ring after ring and praying the line would connect soon. You wished youâd rid your life of those rotten flowers years ago.
