Waste DistributionA Story by Sam-StaffordDespite her best efforts, Esme's flowers continue to die. (Includes references to domestic abuse)Waste Distribution By Sam Stafford “My flowers are dying,” says Esmerelda,
her eyes heavy with tears. I remove my feet from the glass coffee
table, set the remote on the arm of the sofa and pat the seat beside me. “Shame.
I saw they were struggling,” I reply. Those flowers fill the balcony of our little, white and glass apartment. I often watch Esme working on them, a little edge of tongue poking through her lips as she decides which leaves to prune. She stands out there sometimes, pen in hand, making notes. Of what, I don’t know, but it takes some thought; much of the time she just stares, tapping her lip with the pen. Sometimes, she can’t bear to look at the flowers. Other times, her breathy voice fills the apartment while she sings Iris DeMent songs to them. It depends how they're doing. But I’ve never seen her cry over them before. Either way, I’m
not sure why she’s telling me, as if I can reach into the pots and
perform a miracle. Esme huffs like she has a fly on her
nose, but sits anyway. “Why do you have to be like that?” “Like what?” I ask. She sniffs and wipes her eyes clear.
“Act like they don’t matter.” “No.” “You’re upset. It’s not
as easy as you thought to have a garden and now, you’re taking it out on
me.” I study her eyes to see if she might apologise.
When she’s preparing an apology, her brown eyes glisten. But they’re not
glistening now. It’s as though she’s forgotten I’m there, the way she stares
forward. It makes me want to swat her - or hit her, if only to wake her up.
Then she’d know what bad times are, and they aren’t some knock-off flowers
wilting. I take a deep breath and put my hands
on her shoulders. My fingertips work in small circles, twisting the soft fabric
of her shirt collar. I delve under the fabric. My fingertips seem to melt into
her smooth skin, and she sinks, sinks, sinks against me. She breathes out and I
take the opportunity to slip my hands further down until I meet the taut but
malleable flesh of her upper breasts. When I kiss her neck, her perfume fills
my nose and I inhale deeply. It’s like white wine and flowers. “You’re right,” I say, my lips tickling
her earlobes. “I’ll buy you some more. How about that? Chrysanthemums or
sunflowers. Whatever you want.” Her body grows stiff. It wasn’t comfort
she wanted. No, I realise too late, she wanted to forget about those flowers altogether.
Her eyes light up and she’s aware. Suspicion fills her eyes as she pulls away
from me. “What’s the point anyway?” “What’s the point? Jesus, Esme. You
just said these ones are dying.” She scowls at me. “Do
you always have to say that?” “Say what?” “Jesus. Like
it's such an effort to speak to me.” I remove my hand from
where it rests on her shoulder. That teaches me to try. I decide I’m done
talking and that what I really want is a Budweiser. I stand up and go to the
kitchen. I know it’ll piss her off too, drinking in the day. I tap the bottle
on the table just loud enough for her to hear and then uncap it. She’s crying when I re-enter the
lounge. Good, I think, as I strut past her. I enter the bedroom and sit on the
end of the bed. After three seconds, which I count on my fingers, her whimpers amplify,
and she bursts into the bedroom. “Is it you?” I look at her blankly.
“What? Jesus, can I get no peace?” Esme catches her breath
with panicked inhales. “Is it?” I frown. “Is what me?” Her shaky finger
implicates me. Little black streams run from her eyes and she looks completely
mad. Her eyes study me and grow in suspicion. They suck me in like two
blackholes and I begin to panic. I’m suddenly aware of my own face. It’s better
to be a liar - innocent people can’t act it for s**t. “Are you killing them?” “What?” “Is it you killing
them?” “The flowers? Oh, f**k
off.” “You’re killing them,
aren’t you?” She pauses and repeats more forcibly, “Aren’t you?” My cheeks are burning
up. “You’re f*****g losing it,” I say as I barge past her. “Here’s a thought.
Maybe I don’t give two f***s about your flowers.” She shoves me square in
the back as I go past. Sometimes, I wonder if she wants me to hit her. Amazing,
really, that she doesn’t feel the danger. I don’t condone that kind of
thing. Still, when she says certain things and gets in my space, she’s asking
for something to happen. I mean, Jesus, there’s a hierarchy to these things. I
wouldn’t square up to Tyson Fury. Great example, we were
once lay in bed, speaking about partners gone by, and she says her ex-boyfriend
had a bigger dick, but didn’t use it as well. Out of the blue. No warning. And
what the f**k did she want me to do with that information? But that’s how she
operates. Negging me. Looking for some kind of reaction. As if to punctuate this, she follows
the push with a club on my upper back. She might have little hands, but she
catches me funny and I wince. “I work hard on those flowers,” she
cries. “They’re all I have.” I whip around, ignoring
the aching pain which is already burning. I’m already grinning; I’ve got her
now. “Oh, that’s nice. That’s really nice.” “I didn’t mean it like
that.” “Just imagine if I
said, ‘I work hard supporting Charlton, they’re all I have.’ Jesus… what would
you say? It might be a blessing anyway. You spend all your time on that balcony.” “I like flowers.” Her
face scrunches up in apology. Now, there’s that glint. But she won’t actually
apologise. Not yet. “Maybe if we had a baby…” Her ex had wanted
children, that was another thing she’d told me. They almost bit the bullet too.
S**t. I can’t help myself. “A baby?” I pause. “You can’t even keep the flowers
alive.” “You b*****d,” she says, swinging her hand to
slap me. I pluck her hand from
the air, grabbing her bony wrist, which I wrap my fingers around easily,
“Actually, say that again. Work hard? On flowers?” “Stop it.” She’s twisting and
jerking, trying to pull her hand free. Thing is, she’s pulling so hard if I let
go now, she’d topple over. I consider letting her and dismiss it almost as
quick. The image will do. “You want to know about
hard work? Come with me to the sewage plant. Paying for you to have a bunch of
f*****g plants you can’t look after.” “Stop it,” she says, trying
to prise my grip away with her free hand. Her nails sear where she digs them
in. I hold her wrist high above her head to release the prising hand. Her
wrist is lubricated with sweat and any minute now she’ll be able to pull free. But
she’s already getting tired. She’s like a decapitated bird I’m holding by the
legs, once its lost most of its blood, only managing the odd, defeated
struggle. Beyond her pained face, the balcony
lays itself bare. The stems of Esme’s plants are brown and dry. Their buds hang
limp. Petals litter the floor. I know she worked hard on them, in her own
way. I look back at Esme, ever so slowly release my
grip from her wrist, and scoop her in by the waist. She wilts in my arms until
I’m holding most of her weight. I turn her towards the balcony and rest my chin
on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. We’ll get you more plants tomorrow.” “So, they can die too?
I don’t understand. I give them food and water. They get enough sunlight, don’t
they?” Beyond the balcony, and
rows of white houses, the waves break lightly on the banana-coloured beach.
“It’s probably nothing to do with you. It’ll be the salt air. I bet if we buy
some local ones, they’ll grow just great.” She locks her eyes on
mine. “Do you really think so?” “Worth a try.” She plants a surprise
kiss on my mouth. Her lips are like hot pillows against mine. Her cupid's bow
is a well of spent tears and my denim trousers tighten around my thighs. It’s a
closed one, but then she opens her mouth and we really kiss. She moans, pushing
her pelvis against my crotch. It feels good, in a pent-up kind of way. I wonder
how it feels for her; that rod of potential pleasure straining to get at her.
Maybe she sees him as a plucky underdog type. Or she’s thinking about someone
else? Prodding that bit deeper. Reaching places that… I pull from her and
smile. “Get into bed, I’ll be
through in a minute.” She giggles and runs
into the bedroom. What a nympho; she can’t help herself. I reclaim the Heineken
bottle and neck it as I slide the balcony doors open. Back to work tomorrow.
I’d do well to enjoy this time to myself. I squint at the baking horizon where
the sky and sea blend together. That’s where the sewage ends up, and people
swim out there. I watch them sometimes, the tourists, and wonder if they know
they’re swimming in filth. You see, the sludge s**t is processed
in a vat, and if a seed gets in, wow - it grows so quick I thought it was magic
at first. But the other stuff, the water mixed with urea, rushes away to the
sea. Along the banks of piss-river, there is not a green shoot in sight. The
urea concentrates in the plants, killing them. That’s where I got my idea. That
is, when I suspected she’d been up to no good with that big-dicked
ex-boyfriend. I look away from the horizon and
admire the plant pots. Poor Esme really did work hard on those flowers. But the beer
has done a number on me and I never could shag on a full bladder. I unzip my
fly and widen my stance. One last time won’t hurt. I grip the base of my penis and smile
as urine spouts from the end. A gentle rotation ensures each plant gets a good
dose. © 2020 Sam-StaffordAuthor's Note
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Added on December 20, 2020 Last Updated on December 21, 2020 Tags: Short, Story, Relationships, Flowers, Adult AuthorSam-StaffordOrmskirk, West Lancashire, United KingdomAboutBeen writing since I was a child. Still finding my feet in terms of my style so enjoy writing a broad range. Mainly doing short stories for this reason, but I have finished a novel which simply isn't .. more..Writing
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