One Thriving, One Withering

One Thriving, One Withering

            It is a ritual for them. An empty apartment begs the marking of unusual events as denials of the mundane, but even dramatic gestures lose themselves in repetition. A bee battering against the kitchen window on one end or a pair of strange shoes by the door at the other, they blend together after too long a descent from purpose into habit.

            The oleander has no name. The human’s name is Agnes. God’s innocent lamb gifted to her parents, a divine sacrifice on the altar of copulation, she is the driving force behind the ceremony. The oleander is only a yielding participant in an inescapable social custom which it has no hope of ever understanding.

            Their visitor had echoed the usual banal remarks provoked by the banal furnishings of the apartment, and Agnes smiled, on cue. Minimum wage is after all minimal, but silence is also golden. He had seemed nice enough to her at the bar. There were so few tricks up her sleeve, and so much need for this bare hope. She could sing, once, but now for what audience? She had been told her literary critiques were incisive once, but he hadn’t followed her to read. A worldly aunt had confided to her long ago that to know whether a man is really interested in you, you must:

            “Give him an out.”

            “Would you like some tea?” Agnes asked half an hour later, and slipped out from beneath the covers “I think I might have chamomile in the kitchen.”

            She moves slowly, mouth dry. Tea would be good, either way. She lets the steam blow loud as any air raid siren. All clear.

            Agnes swallows and walks smoothly, calmly, past the empty bed, through the lack of breath in the air, past the lack of shoes by the door. She lays the tray on a table corner and briefly considers opening the blinds before lifting her cup. When she is finished, she pours the other cup gently around the shrub’s roots. This is the tenth pot they’ve shared.

            She still has ten bags left, half a box. After that, maybe the oleander will be big enough. It would take quite a lot of leaves to make sure.