White Orchids

An October Flash Fiction Story

The time shows in a glaring red: 10:00 AM. On a normal weekday, the alarm clock’s beeping would have woken me four hours earlier. A persistent voice telling me to get up and get ready for work.

But work doesn’t matter. Not now.

Hazy sunlight passes through our second floor apartment window. It will be another misty fall day. The temperatures have dropped dramatically for autumn. Even with all the extra blankets on the bed last night, I found it impossible to get warm.

Especially without Allen lying here beside me.

I know I should get out of bed. Try to eat something. But I have no appetite. I squint across the room at the calendar on the wall, today’s date circled with a bright purple Sharpie.

October 31st. My birthday.

When we started dating nine years ago and he found out my birthday fell on Halloween, Allen took extra care to make the last day of October all about me. He’d pick me up early from work, chauffeur me to the cozy little bookshop downtown, and buy me something new to read. We’d eat out at Antonio’s Italian Restaurant for a late lunch. Then we’d go to my tiny apartment to devour big slices of cheesecake and watch You’ve Got Mail.

After we got married, my birthday celebration started even earlier in the day. I’d wake to the smell of freshly-made coffee, grab my robe, and shuffle to the kitchen. There would be a steaming mug waiting for me on the counter, but that wasn’t unusual. The special part was the arrangement of orchids in my favorite turquoise vase, along with a note that always made my heart swoon.

But there won’t be morning coffee today. Or flowers. My vase will stay in the cabinet beneath the sink.

Because Allen isn’t here.

We even discussed my birthday plans the night before the accident. Snuggled on the couch, he asked if I wanted to change anything this year. Maybe try a different restaurant for lunch, or watch a new movie in the afternoon.

“No!” I insisted. “Everything is always perfect just the way it is.”

“So no changes to your bouquet?” he teased. “No sunflowers or roses?”

I playfully dropped my lower lip. “Are you threatening not to give me my favorite flowers?”

He grinned and planted a kiss on my mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mags.”

Then everything changed so fast. And now I’m alone.

My poor mother. There must be at least twenty tearful messages from her in my voicemail. Telling me that she loves me. That she wishes I’d answer her calls.

But I can’t call her back. I can only lie in bed, my mind as heavy as the fog outside. I listen to the sound of cars driving back and forth as the city’s people go about their daily lives. Shivering, I pull my covers closer. Shut my eyes. 

Then open them wide.

Someone is in the kitchen.

I hear shoes clicking on the wood floor, the opening and closing of a cabinet door. Water splashes in the sink, then, a couple of minutes later, the apartment door shuts with a click.

I get out of bed, a curious mixture of excitement and fear washing over me as I drift down the hall toward the kitchen. I turn the corner, glimpse a familiar suitcase propped against the kitchen table, see a splash of color on the counter next to a Starbucks cup.

There they are. My birthday orchids, in my favorite turquoise vase. The blooms are white this time instead of purple but, to me, look more beautiful than ever.

I approach the flowers, unable to breathe. A piece of paper sits beside the vase on the counter. I scan the hastily scrawled words:

Happy Birthday, Mags. I hope you don’t mind Starbucks this morning. My flight got in late, and I had to grab something fast to make it to the office on time. I’ll be leaving at noon and head to Antonio’s for lunch. I miss you, but plan to spend your day as we always have. Wish you were here. 

All my love,

Allen

I brush the orchid petals with invisible fingers, a ghost of a smile on my lips. 

I am not forgotten.

Copyright 2024 by H. L. Davis

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