Anna Dempsey | fiction | stopping by the roadside

  
  
  
stopping by the roadside


I picked two handfuls of flowers for you. They were by the roadside, past where we’d stop
for boiled peanuts and fresh squeezed orange juice on our way back from the beach. I hated
the pulp and how it would get stuck between my bottom teeth. You didn’t mind so much,
even offering to pick the bits out of my mouth. Remember the pocket-sized parakeet that sat
on the woman’s shoulder as she bagged our salty snack? Sun’s out, sun’s out, sun’s out it
would squawk. Do you have a favorite flower? I guess I should know. There are a lot of
things I should know. I gathered the ones with smooth, bright petals, avoiding the prickly
stems that scratched at my bare calves leaving tiny incisions. I licked my thumb twice and
rubbed the blood off. Simple as that. Inside the glove compartment I have a ball of twine that
I keep just in case. I’ll use it to bundle your bouquet which is made mostly of butterfly
milkweed, daisies and firewheels. The oranges and yellows will look nice in your great aunt’s
vase. I wonder if you’ll put them by the front window or on the long wooden table. I miss
those dinner parties. Tasting the sauce from the metal spoon you’d hold to my lips. Have you
been cooking much? Maybe I’ll drive the flowers over this evening when I know you’ll be in
the back garden reading some long novel in your lounge chair, the three wicks of the
citronella candle lit on the plastic table beside you, salt from the ocean dried on your arms.
I’ll put the bouquet on the doorstep and won’t leave a note. But if I did it would say our
friendship was important to me. I don’t expect to hear from you, but I hope you like the
colors I picked.