Wal-Mart Flowers

Updated: Mar 17

Blue or pink? I couldn’t remember what color she liked better. Tulips or whatever this is? I weighed my options. The cashier’s register beeped clinically as I waited in line with the droopy blue tulips. The fluorescence cast a lightly buzzing hue of sickly green over the depressing supermarket. Behind the cashier, I caught a glimpse, through static, of the game on the flickering television lynched against the wall.

“Incomplete! Turnover on downs!” A whistle blared the play to stoppage. They don’t run the damn ball anymore.

I drove home in silence as the wipers gently disregarded the half rain on my windshield. It was dark out, and she hadn’t called which meant she was still pissed. Typical. I sighed and scratched my chin as I steeled myself for the moment to come. Hopefully, she won’t bitch too much when she sees these flowers.

I felt bad about our fight. Mostly, because I knew she’d be waiting to give me the fucking blues when I got home from work. She always did that. As soon as I came in after work on a day we’d argued earlier she’d pounce with her intense nagging or passive-aggressive huffing and puffing until I apologized. Completely insufferable, in truth. What a fucking baby. Flowers or candy, and a couple of chores usually shut her up. Hell, if I did enough she might even let me get on top of her later. But all of that depends on how bad we had fought earlier.

You can bounce back from certain words: idiot, retard, bitch, but cunt is a whole other story. I can’t remember what exactly started the fight, but I know how it ended. Anyways, what choice did she have? I’m going to be nice and give her these flowers so she’s gonna have to get over it.

I walked up our steps and heard the kids running around and playing. I looked into the window at the golden light of the home with the night’s chill cold on my shoulders. My son noticed me and stiffened, waved politely, then ran off to another room.

I reached out to open the door, but the damn handle wasn’t responding; being stubborn again. I tickled it the way that used to work but no dice. I grabbed it firmly and held it a certain way. Nothing. Finally, my patience wore thin and I smacked the knob one good time and the door reluctantly eased open. The kids looked in fear after the loud strike then put their heads down to their toys as if nothing had happened.

Inside, the house smelled like clean laundry and a good dinner. It was warm and neat. I went into the kitchen and saw her at the stove finishing up some pasta or something. I pinched her butt the way I usually did when I wanted her to turn around, but she didn’t.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said as I firmly coiled my arms around her waist holding her close.

“Got you some flowers!” I offered feebly as she worked steadily on. I held her there, awkwardly, as my patience began to wane. Then, what else was there to do? There’s this hatred in me. I just can’t stop it, you know.

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