Stupid Roses

She was not sure what had happened to her. She did not want to cry – not this time. She was not sure how long she could hold it. Although she hated herself for these moments, sometimes the urge and the fear were too strong to control. This certainly wasn’t the first of those moments. She felt like shouting, shrieking, crying, making a scene – something – anything to make her feel better – about herself. But she knew there would be none of it – not this time. She had resolved there would be no pleading and cajoling either. This time she had to be strong. Not knowing how long this resolve would last, she stared at the roses.

He wasn’t sure why he was there – like that. Had he done something wrong? Again? He did not dislike answering these oft-repeated questions periodically. But he did not like them either. He was fighting the urge to wisecrack. This was not an appropriate time. Off late, there never seemed to be an appropriate time. He was not angry, he was not displeased, he was not disillusioned – he was just overcome by a bout of indifference. He knew it. It did not bother him. Not knowing what to say, he stared at the roses.

The roses were not sure what was going on. Although this was not the first stand-off, this felt different. She was not bitter, nor ecstatic; he was not jocular, nor chagrined. When she had been to the flower shop this morning, she had been all smiles and cheers. She had been humming a song they didn’t know. They had noticed him glow when she had entered the room. They had enjoyed it. Now the silence was deafening. They looked on.

The indifference bothered her. Was he not interested in her anymore? Had she become too predictable for him? He never said so. These days he hardly ever said anything. She felt unvalued, helpless; maybe even unwanted. She knew he did not intend to hurt her. But wasn’t she, too, entitled to her phases of unwarranted paranoia and self doubt? She knew he did not talk a lot; but didn’t she deserve a few answers? Or, had he taken her for granted?

He did take her for granted. As with the indifference, this too did not bother him though. He was not against answering questions – he just did not know what to say; and he never understood why she had all these questions and doubts at all. He did not. For him this was it. He knew nothing could ever go wrong between them – and this is why he took her for granted. For him this was a manifestation of faith. But he couldn’t explain this to her; he never tried. For him, it was obvious.

None of them had spoken for a long time and this was making the roses very uncomfortable. They wished they were not present there then; they wished she had not picked them up that morning. They had expected they would make him happy – she had intended the same. They awaited all apprehensions and misgivings to evaporate, yet with each passing second the air was getting heavier, colder.

They heard him break the silence without breaking the gaze. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. She kept staring at them. She was silent. The roses were silent. Silence. Teardrop. They bled.

He could not look at her crying, so he looked away. She picked up the roses and threw them in the dustbin. “Stupid roses”, she said, and walked out of the room.

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PS: A sequel to this is available at "Lovely Omelette"