Only Dying Roses
By Linda Seaton
from Chloe
A year or so ago, I would have been struck speechless by the sight of Clark Kent arriving at my house with a truck full of roses. Well, probably, nearly speechless. Now, I'm just curious and I hurry out to meet him. The smell is eye-wateringly overwhelming.
I pinch my nose shut. "Clark Kent. Blooming Idiot Delivery Service?"
"No jokes. Please no jokes."
"Fair enough. Why all the flowers?"
He tells me in that fast, eyes-averted way that Clark has mastered. He finishes, "And I was wondering if you could drive the truck. My eyes are almost swollen shut and I'm afraid I'm going to kill someone."
"Let me leave a note for my Dad and get my bag."
Almost apologetically he offers, "I asked Pete first but he couldn't do it."
"Pete's deathly allergic to roses, isn't he?"
"You know about Pete's allergies? Why didn't I?"
The thought that Pete sneezing his head off ranks somewhere far below the fascination that is Lex Luthor crosses my mind as I write my whereabouts on the "Where's Chloe" board in the kitchen.
I run into my bedroom, retrieve my bag and duck into my bathroom. I open the medicine cabinet and shuffle things aside to find the jar of Vicks VapoRub. I smear the Vicks under my nose and drop the container in my purse. Hey, SILENCE OF LAMBS is a great movie and it has provided me with the knowledge of how to mask the odor of all foul things.
I hustle outside and half-crawl behind the wheel of the truck. In comparison to my car this thing is a tank and, well, I kind of like the power. I gun the engine and we're off. I can only imagine what the wafting aroma must be like for the cars that pass us.
"Why, do they smell so bad?" He asks me as he leans out the truck window.
"Well, there's about five hundred of them..."
"682." He corrects me as he blinks away tears. "What do you think they smell like?"
"Kind of like that marshmallow creme stuff mixed with tuna fish."
Clark starts to gag and half-shouts, "Pull over!"
I obey and he actually throws himself out of the truck as it rolls to a stop. I put the tank in park and hurry to him as he paces up and down the road drawing in deep breaths.
"I don't know what gardener in his or her right mind would plant this many of this type of rose. They're infamous for their smell, especially when they're cut."
He seems embarrassed and tries to distract me with the sound of my own voice. He asks, "What kind of roses are they? My mom didn't recognize them."
"They're Yeats roses. Named for the poet, William Butler Yeats. Unfortunately, to get the great colors some botany-types created this aroma."
"I hate botanists," Clark coughs.
Ignoring the cries of the devil on my shoulder, I produce the Vicks from my bag and offer it to Clark. "Spread some of this under your nose."
Clark obeys. The look of the relief that spreads across his face is almost beatific. He smiles for the first time all morning.
"This is a lot better. You're the best Chloe."
I watch him as he races back to the truck and slides in behind the wheel. Clark always recovers from bad experiences instantly. I sometimes wonder if it is because of some genetically programmed optimism or if it's just because Clark doesn't feel or think all that deeply. He is my friend so I push that thought away.
He slams the truck door and calls to me. "Chloe are you coming?"
I walk back toward the truck. At my own pace. I don't run after Clark anymore.
tbc....
By Linda Seaton
from Chloe
A year or so ago, I would have been struck speechless by the sight of Clark Kent arriving at my house with a truck full of roses. Well, probably, nearly speechless. Now, I'm just curious and I hurry out to meet him. The smell is eye-wateringly overwhelming.
I pinch my nose shut. "Clark Kent. Blooming Idiot Delivery Service?"
"No jokes. Please no jokes."
"Fair enough. Why all the flowers?"
He tells me in that fast, eyes-averted way that Clark has mastered. He finishes, "And I was wondering if you could drive the truck. My eyes are almost swollen shut and I'm afraid I'm going to kill someone."
"Let me leave a note for my Dad and get my bag."
Almost apologetically he offers, "I asked Pete first but he couldn't do it."
"Pete's deathly allergic to roses, isn't he?"
"You know about Pete's allergies? Why didn't I?"
The thought that Pete sneezing his head off ranks somewhere far below the fascination that is Lex Luthor crosses my mind as I write my whereabouts on the "Where's Chloe" board in the kitchen.
I run into my bedroom, retrieve my bag and duck into my bathroom. I open the medicine cabinet and shuffle things aside to find the jar of Vicks VapoRub. I smear the Vicks under my nose and drop the container in my purse. Hey, SILENCE OF LAMBS is a great movie and it has provided me with the knowledge of how to mask the odor of all foul things.
I hustle outside and half-crawl behind the wheel of the truck. In comparison to my car this thing is a tank and, well, I kind of like the power. I gun the engine and we're off. I can only imagine what the wafting aroma must be like for the cars that pass us.
"Why, do they smell so bad?" He asks me as he leans out the truck window.
"Well, there's about five hundred of them..."
"682." He corrects me as he blinks away tears. "What do you think they smell like?"
"Kind of like that marshmallow creme stuff mixed with tuna fish."
Clark starts to gag and half-shouts, "Pull over!"
I obey and he actually throws himself out of the truck as it rolls to a stop. I put the tank in park and hurry to him as he paces up and down the road drawing in deep breaths.
"I don't know what gardener in his or her right mind would plant this many of this type of rose. They're infamous for their smell, especially when they're cut."
He seems embarrassed and tries to distract me with the sound of my own voice. He asks, "What kind of roses are they? My mom didn't recognize them."
"They're Yeats roses. Named for the poet, William Butler Yeats. Unfortunately, to get the great colors some botany-types created this aroma."
"I hate botanists," Clark coughs.
Ignoring the cries of the devil on my shoulder, I produce the Vicks from my bag and offer it to Clark. "Spread some of this under your nose."
Clark obeys. The look of the relief that spreads across his face is almost beatific. He smiles for the first time all morning.
"This is a lot better. You're the best Chloe."
I watch him as he races back to the truck and slides in behind the wheel. Clark always recovers from bad experiences instantly. I sometimes wonder if it is because of some genetically programmed optimism or if it's just because Clark doesn't feel or think all that deeply. He is my friend so I push that thought away.
He slams the truck door and calls to me. "Chloe are you coming?"
I walk back toward the truck. At my own pace. I don't run after Clark anymore.
tbc....