The hour of the party drew nearer, and she had not progressed beyond the salutation of her email. She kept staring at the daffodils bobbing out of their vases like excited puppies.
It's not that she didn't know what to write; words were never in short supply for her. It was a question of how to express the abstract. She'd been playing the game of backspace for hours because every variation on her thoughts seemed trite.
The flowers had arrived by messenger. She'd answered the door with her toothbrush dangling out of her mouth, thinking it was the boy from down the hall who needed telling off for ringing her bell. Instead, yellow heads rose up to greet her, and a disgruntled deliverywoman - not something she saw everyday - huffed, "Where do you want these?"
She'd let them lie, thirsty, on her kitchen table for the longest time. It wasn't necessary to read the card; there was only one person she knew who would have sent daffodils. After a third cup of tea, she rescued them, plunging them into her favourite jug and vase. It had been impossible to stop staring at them as they basked on the sunny sill. Hoping it would wrench her from the shock, she opened the card.
I still miss you.
A glance at the clock confirmed that she had fifteen minutes to get ready; ten if she wanted to avoid running to meet the train. The bathroom mirror implied that it would take longer than that to salvage her reflection, so she settled for lipgloss and a messy bun and shrugged on her coat. It was only when she was sitting on the train that she realised she was holding the card. The woman opposite her tapped glittery nails against a pleather bag, nodded at the card and smiled.
He was supposed to be a memory: something she'd left behind in the boxes of summer shirts and garish socks in her mother's garage. Except that he was there; he was in the stems and the leaves and the pollen of the flowers. He was in the ink of the card and in the woman's smile. She shivered before getting off at the next station.
"You came!"
She was ten minutes late. "Of course I did. How are mum and baby?"
"As you see us: full bellies and heavy eyes."
She couldn't quite join the laughter, and tickled the baby's chin.
"What are you drinking tonight?"
"Whatever helps me forget."
"Sorry?"
"Red, thanks."
The glass was too full, so she edged around the room, avoiding the countless elbows and handbags. A glimpse of yellow snagged her attention: a bouquet like hers, only bigger, hogged the windowsill.
"Those arrived this morning. Have you heard from him?"
She swallowed, and tried to make eyecontact with the baby. "No. I thought he was on assignment."
"Oh? Actually, he's been in town for about a week. He said he'd pop round for the party, but you know him."
Her lips curved in reply. "I think your little man needs a change."
"Oh, goodness. Yes. Sorry. I'm knee-deep in poo these days, so I hardly even smell it anymore."
"Do you need a hand?"
"No, thanks. Ah, that's the doorbell. Would you be a darling and get it? I won't be a minute."
He wore a shirt the colour of Delft pottery.
Her mouth was dry.
"Did you like them?"
She nodded. "They're in my windowsill."
"I saw. That's why it took me longer to get here." He stepped through the door, brushing past her, trailing the scent of freshly cut grass. "I thought you'd have sent a strongly worded email by now."
"I tried."
He grinned. "Words failed you? You, the writer?"
"In a way. I couldn't find the right ones." She cleared her throat. "I heard you're back."
"Well, that depends. A few things are up in the air at the moment. But once I know I'm welcome, I may stay."
"I see." She began folding her arms but reached for her coat instead. "Tell them I said thanks for a lovely evening." She slammed the door harder than necessary.
All the way home, she replayed the conversation in her mind. She didn't need words; she needed action.
The next morning, as he returned from the café with coffee and the paper tucked under his arm, he stopped. There, on the pavement below her window, lay the debris of what might have been.
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