I’m standing in the line at the grocery store, with a bouquet of flowers in each hand. The store is chaos, with brimming carts forming lines of people that fan out from beeping check stands.
The bright colors of the tulips I hold seem to clash with my mood. My arms feel heavy. I give up holding the flowers upright, and let them fall upside down.
I must look like such a cliche. A girl in heels, hair curled, red lipstick, too sad to hold her flowers upright.
Three days ago they were my family. They were my friends. We were linked together by a special bond, because we had music in common, or so I thought. Two days ago we sat around the table as they told me they didn’t need me anymore. It was a business, move, they said. It was the smart move, they said. Yet, business shouldn’t break your heart.
I cried and pleaded and got angry, and their faces stayed firm. The one who should have fought for me didn’t. His eyes were dark and vacant when I turned on him, lashing out, hoping my grief would offset his apathy and bring some trace of regret or sadness. Nothing.
And so I left and tried muddle through the obligations that were previously scheduled. Work. Chores. Planning a bridal shower. The latter brought me here to this store, where I bought lemons and tulips, like I said I would. Tulips that were too heavy to hold up.
And as I look down at them, dangling from my hands, with carts and baskets and people pressed in around me, I can’t help but feel a little like them. Upside down.