Artwork © Eric N. Peterson

 

Please Don’t Eat the Orchid

She wasn’t coming back, and all that was left was the orchid.

Mara and I had shared a second story apartment for over a month. We needed something to prove to others that our relationship was stable. But this impulsive move-in had quickly disintegrated into the chaos of different personalities and fragmented communication.

The bright blue orchid plant in a heavy pot was bought and sat on the breakfast nook where the sun always shined, hiding the deep scratches on the wood from when Mara furnished it. She always had a habit of doing that, covering up reality with beautiful things.

Mara didn’t admit to herself she wasn’t really over the ex she talked incessantly about, who’s ugly puke green decorative pillows still tainted the new couch, and the badly made rainbow ceramic salad bowl still haunted the kitchen. I hadn’t had the heart to tell Mara I knew who she really loved, because she had half chosen me.

The day she left, she split the apartment. Mara possessed everything that was hers, even the pillows, and the bowl. After she drove away, I sat down at the breakfast nook, knowing she had left me nothing but this damn orchid and the cat that had been originally mine, staring at me with big green eyes. If she had a talent for destroying relationships, I had a talent for killing plants.

For days, a pit lay in my stomach as I manically cared for the orchid, still hoping beyond all hope Mara would return. Feed it fertilizer from spring until autumn, don’t over water it or it’ll develop root rot, and never leave it in a room with sudden temperature drops. Friends were amazed it had survived this long, asking me how I was doing. Filling the pot with plant food I responded I was fine, never taking my eyes off of it.

Some time later, while setting up my single cup of coffee, I noticed out of the corner of my eye. my fluffy white cat Oliver jump on the table seemingly very interested in the flower. I watched as he sniffed it and whacked the bright blue blooms with his paw.

“Oliver no! no, bad cat!” I bellowed, shooing him off the table.

He blinked at me as if he knew I was crazy, like this orchid meant something meaningful, like it wasn’t a cat toy for him, like plants had feelings.

When I looked back, a single petal had fallen.

Oliver was persistent. With one petal, came another, and another, done tastefully with half his teeth so I wouldn’t notice a sound until drops of vibrant blue covered the wood. Every single time I turned my back, he kept going, like he was magnetically drawn to it, drawn to my denial. I kept telling him “please don’t eat the orchid.” He looked at me with contemplative eyes and then proceeded onwards.

Spring waned, so did summer, and fall, so, I eventually, had to stopped trying. I stopped trying to look for Mara’s car, missing or her eating habits, or her items that were now collecting dust in the spot where they once were. I stopped potting the orchid with fertilizer and got my own throw pillows in the color that I liked. Eventually, in the bright winter sun streaming through the windows, I saw the orchid was absent of blooms. Oliver jumped up in his final act, sniffing the wilted crumpled thing before with one swipe of a paw, knocking it off the table with reminisces of beauty shattering beneath us.

 

Lena N. Gemmer is a multimedia artist originally from the quiet foggy town of Montara, CA where she began her love of writing on her grandfather’s Remington Rand typewriter. She received her BA in English and History from Allegheny College in Meadville, PA, and her MFA in Writing from University of New Hampshire. As a writer, she believes in connecting to readers on a visceral human level. When she is not in graduate school pursuing her PhD in English CW at SUNY Binghamton, you can find her taking photographs or scolding her Norwegian Forest cat Mitchy.

Eric N. Peterson is from Atlanta, Ga. He’s been drawing cartoons all his life. He leans towards the absurd, imaginative, and the surreal, as that’s where all the flavor is.