On the way home from work, I decided to stop at the flowers for six dollars fence. Not only did the sign attract sun rays to antique the sticky tape holding those dear letters together, the flowers were just that perfect type of almost dead. Two bunches of my most least favourite lilac hue, browning toward the edges. A couple more directional signs, clearly stating that stealing the flowers was not something any passerby should do. You could tell the stealing advice was a late addition to the sign, obviously time gathered the necessary experience, and flowers for six dollars fence advanced their marketing strategies. Open honesty provoking guilty conscience, prevention rather than cure.
Usually you should’s take just over a week for the will not’s to cease, although for some reason being in the now future has removed quite a lump sum of time.
Selection between the two lilac wilts was easy, as they were both the same rate of almost deadness. Fingers dancing in front neckline; tippy toeing themselves along nooks and crannies searching for the doorbell, which, one of the signs clearly stated to ring, before, then stating that if nobody is home place the money, which, would never be more than six dollars, (unless you took more than one bunch of flowers) into the letterbox saying ‘this letterbox’.
Gifting George the lilac wilts was a possibility, perhaps flowers for a discounted bag of nightshades? No, George does not want half dead flowers, as much as I do, nor do I even like tomatoes. Bowels just about to hit the jackpot given previous coffee. Placing flowers in a public toilet was something on the to-do list, but now seems way too rebel try hard, too gorilla. Why do some humans think they are lizards, anyway?
It then struck me, of how cowardly I truly am. Writing about people who will never find out. Dismissing a wonderful cluster of hard rubbish; wrapped in illegally dumped black and yellow tape, a grand complementary colour companionship, where by the lilac wilts would have been proud to adorn. It’s just red and green are more everything. Form wise.
Leg wax lady called three times- re-scheduling thrice.
Her work when she likes, change mind, anxiety allows ever more grace to her existence. The butchering of legs, less so with every visit. Random entry questions with little relation.
‘are you going to the soccer?’
Even leg wax lady, whom now mutual actual name drops happen on the regular –also known as friendship- causes coward tendencies to pop rivet. Mind spent the last seven weeks pondering how to ask her, if she’d pose in just slippers for my next series of paintings. And just like the stale bunch of wilting crysthanamum, writing about others sucks if you are to then form a friendship. They will see and you will lose it. Just as clouds were picked, pocketed and left deflated with little self-worth. Judged even. Other forms watched, silenced themselves and hid after feeling such an ordeal. Treating lifeforms as products. Throwing them wayside, when something better comes along.
Writing reveals truths and hurts everyone. It looses you friendships, some of which I wouldn’t mind. This tongue usually kept on a leech which is most probably the cause of blistering volcano’s around neck. There is always forgiveness, though.
Those lilac wilts would be best as a bundle of potpourri, given back to the flowers for six dollars fence, a thank-you for nothing. Or just heaped over the compost.
They are still in the car, still wilting.
And then the parcel arrived.