The lilacs were wilting in their little vase.
She’d only cut them from the bush yesterday. The stem at an angle with a sharp scissors, like her mother had taught her. When the window was open, they filled the kitchen with the scent of freedom and boredom and first love. She’d only wanted to bring a small wisp of that feeling inside, to keep the memories in the air when the window was closed.
And now the flowers were dead.
She washed out the little vase and touched the tiny bunches of purple to her lips. A funeral. Then she threw them in the trash, on top of the empty two-liter plastic pop bottle and the weight-loss magazine and the licked-clean yogurt lid and the expired department store coupons. And the photos.
Her friends had told her to burn them, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that kind of ritual. First of all, she didn’t have time. Second of all, where the hell was she supposed to start that kind of fire? She’d probably burn the whole neighborhood down if she tried.
The lilacs landed right on top of his glossy face. The photos were already splattered and sticky. Yet they’d managed to stay floating at the top of the trash bag for a few days. Definitely not on purpose. The papers had been signed. His side of the closet was empty.
She’d have to take out the trash soon. The garbage truck came by on Thursdays. She imagined the photos rotting in a dump somewhere. “That’s where he belongs,” she said out loud, and felt like crying.
Maybe some of the dandelions infesting her yard would last longer in a vase than the lilacs. Or maybe she needed to buy something that didn’t need so much of her attention. Like a cactus.