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Now, sitting here in the sun, it’s hard to write about the roses. The warmth of summer fills the air and competes for dominance with avian music. The sky is blue, save a few faint cloud wisps, after thoughts in the great painted masterpiece above. Even the insects seem lighthearted. The atmosphere tempts me to forget, to join the lazy stream of summer life, but two dried roses will let me escape today without telling their story.
At the top of the stairs, the three girls stood and smiled at one another. Yes, two were slightly nervous, but they wore smiles nonetheless.
“Didn’t I tell you it was snazzy?” asked the one in the center, her smile proud and happy.
The girl in the pink dress, pretty though she hated the color, blinked. “It’s snazzy alright, but where are all the people?” She scanned the room again, just in case she’d missed someone hiding in the corner.
The tallest of the three, brilliant in blue, sighed and approached one of the tables on the far side of the room. “We’re early, remember? I thought that if I said to leave at 6:30, everyone would be out of the house by 7:00. Unfortunately, we left ‘on time’.”
After some deliberation, the group decided to wait for the rest in the bathroom. They discovered another small group of girls who had arrived even earlier, and the one in the black dress just laughed. “Now we can all be losers together!” she joked and coaxed the other girls outside.
When 7:30 finally rolled around, the first group arrived on time. The tall in blue stood with her friend in pink by the window. The one in black wavered between attempting to pull her group into a larger conversation and simply standing vaguely annoyed by the window. Until, that is, she saw the new arrivals...
He was wearing the classic suit, smoking jacket, bow tie. A small red rose was pinned to his lapel. He smiled as the girl in black approached. “How wonderful, you match your theme,” she teased.
“But of course,” he replied.
Another of his female friends, dressed stylishly in a green dress of her own creation, greeted him with an enthusiastic hug and an apology. “Sorry we couldn’t pick you up.”
“No problem, I had fun on the bus.” He chuckled lightly. “I felt like one of the cool people.” n
The one in green smiled at him and then looked down at her bag. She had brought a small red rose of her own and she picked it up and held it toward him. “Here. Why don’t you wear this?”
He smiled a bit sheepishly and removed his own flower. “Thanks.”
The girl in black frowned ever so slightly, the shook her head. The bright smile returned. She couldn’t forget how good it was to be back.
Dinner had finally been served. A salad of small balls of what appeared to be cheese and several thinly sliced tomatoes lagged far behind bread as the appetizer. Main course consisted of some very good Chargrilled Supreme of Chicken, with a side of piedmont. Of course, most just called the later fried peppers. In the pause between main course and dessert, the girl in the black dress moved from her table and original party to his. There were several empty seats, anyway, and it was a bit more entertaining.
He took the last rose from the vessel and placed it between his teeth as if dancing the tango, but the thorns caught his lower lip in a most unpleasant way. He readjusted the stem and proceeded to mime that famous dance with his friend seated next to him. Apparently, the wine was not so bad that no one was drinking any of it.
The lights had been dimmed and everyone was packed onto the small dance floor. Quarters were close. But he and the girl in the black dress did not seem to mind the proximity. Her friend in pink dancing with them smiled. But in the tight space, the girl in black’s arm scraped against a lapel pin, and she grabbed her elbow in surprise and pain. The brief inspection in the dark, however, showed no apparent damage. She continued dancing.
At some point, his rose fell from its place and landed on the floor under so many feet.
The night was nearly over, and he was tired and a little sick from the smoke on the balcony outside. He wasn’t dancing. The girl in black began to realize the night was coming to a close. A slightly melancholy song began to play and he got up to dance again. She looked at him, then got off the dance floor and to an empty table. Concerned, he followed her, but she tried to turn away from him. She didn’t want him to see her crying.
He suggested they go outside until she felt better. She nodded and they walked to the sliding glass doors. On the balcony, they moved away from the large groups near the door. Night had finally closed in, and they could see the lights of London in the distance. A few car headlights shone across Epsom Downs, but most passed by. In the courtyard below, limos were lined up in position near the door to escort their passengers safely home.
“I’m sorry,” she offered in apology.
“There’s no need to be sorry,” he countered, his tone matter of fact.
But she couldn’t stop herself from trying to explain. “It’s just...I don’t know. I’ve been gone for a year, and this visit has been...” She paused. “It’s been like coming home.” She could feel tears rising in her again, and she shut her eyes. “But now I’m going to have to leave you all again, and I..and I don’t want to.. and..” Her throat closed.
He placed a hand on her back as a comforting gesture. “I know.” They both looked out on the Downs in silence. “But, you know, it would have had to happen eventually. Even if you hadn’t moved.”
Her reply was quiet. “I know.”
“We’ll be getting ready for college next year,” he continued. “Like it or not, I’m probably going to stay here, and you’ll be back in the States.”
She nodded again. A few tears slid down her face. They stood together in silence.
“I miss you, you know,” she offered very quietly. “I miss you a lot.”
He put his hand on top of hers. “I know.”
“As representatives of the junior class, we just want to tell all of you graduating seniors how wonderful it’s been having you. Good luck next year and congratulations!”
The seniors broke into loud cheers while the juniors clapped and whistled in appreciation. The lights came up and the dance was over. Groups slowly wandered down the stairs, ready for after-parties. Others gathered their things and prepared for a trip home and a good night’s sleep. Several groups of two or three were still on the floor, hugging and crying their goodbyes to one another.
The girl in black made her way to her original table. On the way, she passed his table, paused, then took the rose with which he had been pretending to tango. A keepsake, she told herself. He met her at her table as she gathered her things. She took a picture of him, but her smile of thanks faltered and she looked down. He smiled at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. Looking at her table, her plucked one of the roses and gave it to her. “Here, take this.”
She smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she said, and added the rose to her own.
They made their way down the spotted staircase with little conversation. Both stood by the door as he waited to be picked up, groups of people passing by, sometimes calling goodbyes, sometimes requiring hugs and making promises of meetings over the summer. When, finally, her two friends came up behind her, the numbers had dwindled considerably.
His phone rang, and he glanced at the number. “Time for me to go,” he said and smiled at them. Before he left, he stopped to hug the girl in the black dress. Her grasp was tight and firm, his, slightly less so. He hurried out the door and did not look back.
She watched him go until the night swallowed his profile. Then she cried.
But she did not let go of her roses.
The next morning, she sat in a window seat, 35A, on a 747 bound for SFO. Held carefully in her hands were the two roses. The tears would come every so often, and she no longer attempted to hold back. She didn’t care anymore. She carefully placed her treasures on the empty seat next to her and went to sleep.
It was when she woke that she finally noticed the long scratch running from her elbow down her lower arm. She took the roses back from the seat and looked at them. That morning, it had been impossible to tell the difference between the two, barring the faint teeth impressions on the one she had taken. Now, the roses had begun to wilt. The rose she had taken had merely shrunk in width, still retaining the classic shape of the rose. The one he had given her had changed. Its stem was bent to the point of breaking two thirds of the way up. The petals had lost the shape of that spiral cup and seemed in danger of falling from where they were attached.
Both had turned dark purple, and each still retained their sweet natural perfume.
She held them carefully the rest of the flight, alternately upside-down and cupped in her hands. Anything to keep them from being lost.
Or maybe I just don’t want to know.
The two roses have dried and sit next to each other on my desk. Each is beautiful in its own way, but neither as beautiful as the night I first saw them.
