Cut Flowers

He brought me roses.

My father used to say that if a man brings a woman cut flowers he's cheating on her. How pessimistic I thought back then. How realistic I think now.

I knew there was something wrong, but instead of an explanation he offered me flowers. I agreed to go to a festival with him, even though there were a dozen ways I would have rather spent my Midsummer. I thought maybe that would bring us closer again.

He disappeared as soon as we had the tent ready. I was left plowing the mud among way too many strangers. When I found him he was with a young woman. The woman was small and soft and she had a strikingly long hair. He introduced me to her without any title. I looked at him beaming at her every word and knew exactly what was going on.

For two miserable days I only waited for leaving. After the festival it didn't take long before he wrote to me that he “needed time to think”. I asked him if there was any chance that after this “little break” he’d want to make things right with me. He simply didn't answer.

For two weeks I waited to hear from him. I knew he had left the town, and it wasn't hard to guess why. Finally he gave me the relief of knowing it was over. For a couple of days I fantasized about all the ways I could beat him up. The anger felt so much better than the waiting.

Later he asked me if we could still be friends. I said maybe if he would give me some sort of explanation first. I never heard from him again. Once I stumbled into his then-fiancée’s writing about how they had met online, agreed to meet at the festival, and how soon after he had travelled to meet her to have oh-so-romantic weekend together.

I wonder if he ever told her who I was. And if he now brings her cut flowers.