Flowers in the Dark

A bouquet of flowers in ribbons and cellophane lies on a shelf in the dark. The street lights shine in from beyond the window, through the light rain just past midnight. The flowers are mostly white in color, but they reflect a pale orange in the dim light, blending into the black of the shadows cast by the surrounding furniture.

Calla lilies, stargazers, orchids, gladiolas… soft, inviting white petals, with shy hints of color added by a stalk of chinese lanterns and a pair of roses tinged with bashful pink and red. So beautiful, chosen with attention and meaning and hope. But fragile as they are, they are still made of sturdier stuff than the hopes they were meant to gird.

Flowers unaccepted. A gift refused. I’ll retrieve them in the morning.

Rejected again. It seems unrequited love is the only kind I’m destined to know, and that’s no one’s fault. I don’t fall in love so easily… Maybe once every two years or so on average, I ask a girl out, or let her know how I feel. Without exception, the answer has always been negative. I can’t play the martyr, either – for the two or three times that affections have been turned in my direction, my answer has also been no. It’s not right to pretend at feelings that aren’t there, and to be fair about it, I can’t ask for falsehoods – even kind ones – from those who have the misfortune to become the subjects of my affection. This works both ways. Or rather, it doesn’t.

I’m not surprised that I have an affinity for rain. People associate it with melancholy; emotionally, my life has been mostly melancholy. Tiny, misty droplets of midnight rain filled the air as I walked home, dusting me with beads of water too small to make an umbrella worthwhile. They alight on the window, leaving tiny spots of shadow across the flowers sleeping on the sill.

But it was the kindest rejection I’ve had yet. She lowered her voice below the surrounding din, with an almost embarrassed smile. That lovely smile, one of so many things I loved about her. She couldn’t take the flowers, she said. She couldn’t take any of it. She said it honestly, she said it directly. With a smile, and sympathy, and care. Maybe such things mean very little to most people upon rejection, but in all truth, this is the nicest anyone’s been to me while rejecting me. No sudden changes in temperament, no instant coldness, no frown… no emotional spite, no accusing looks, no hint of loathing, of disdain, not even any implication of harsh words behind a saccharine smile or a grimace of discomfort that would say, “What gave you that idea?” or “You’re creepy, you know that” or “Stop stalking me.” None of the decisive hostility I’m used to, hostility that I have come to know is meant to kill my affections as quickly as possible, to remove me from life and awareness with the finality of ultimate denial. I know sometimes women try to be as mean to the guy as possible, to make him forget – for both their sakes – quickly and without regret. In my case, that never works. Though she had no romantic affection to offer me, she did offer me tact and kindness, things which I have come to believe are themselves gifts that also can’t be demanded. However disappointing they may be against the backdrop of original hope, I recognize them for what they are; something she was not bound to offer me.

As I bought the card and flowers, as I contemplated what to write, I knew that by the day’s end, I would either be happy or sad. I knew that, whatever I felt, it certainly wouldn’t be nothing. I’m sad now, yes, but I chose to ask, and the emotional consequences are mine to bear for it. There’s nothing I could blame her for – all I could ask for was an honest answer, and I got it. And it was delivered kindly and compassionately. We love who we love, and we don’t who we don’t. And I can ask for nothing beyond her honest answer. And I knew that, far more likely than not, the answer would be “no.” It didn’t surprise me… I could have thought of several good reasons why that would be her answer. Were I in her place, they would certainly have made a difference. My body trembles with stifled tears, but there is no fault on any side. It is not my fault for being attracted to her despite myself, and it is not her fault for not reciprocating. There is a complete absence of blame, of wrongdoing, of sin… there are only tears in the dark.

I have changed a lot over the years. Become more insightful, more patient – gained some small measure of wisdom and maturity with the passing of my youthful years… learned more of compassion and altruism, of selfless generosity, of holding fast to principles in the face of disdain and spite, and the joy of fighting for good causes and for healing the strife plaguing the minds of friends. Certainly these improvements are all relative. I may not be a swan, but I was a very ugly duckling. But what am I now?

I sit by the window, the orange light of the streets filtering in at one in the morning. Tiny droplets of rain cling to the pane, casting bits of shadow on my face, a pale, morose figure outlined in the dark of my unlighted room. The lilies close their petals. My lashes meet. The last drops of water trace their way down the stalks of the roses and gladiolas as the final salted tear finds its way down my face. The flowers turn from the window as the lights fade to nothing. I close the shutters against the streetlamps and settle into bed.

I will see the flowers again in the morning and take them home. Cut flowers are ephemeral. They will not live long, but for that time, we will have each other, because we have no one else.

I hate myself.