The last chapter of Ancient of Dunaya is not quite ready for posting, so I decided to post a submission from a different author. It's quite romantic!
The town I grew up in lacked for much of anything in the way that could be called "fancy." It was full of ordinary folks doing ordinary things. In fact there was a "rich" end of town, but by the standards of most places, these people were anything but rich. It just meant they had nicer houses and a couple of newer cars in the garage.
There was one home though that stood head and shoulders above the rest. The lady that owned this house was wealthy, a divorcee, or an heiress or something, her wealth gained from some scandal in the divorce. She had the most impressive rose garden. People came from all over the county to see her roses.
That's not really what this story is about, but you've got to start somewhere and I guess that's the best I can give you.
This story is about a single rose, a rose that came from that garden.
It all started one day when I had a meeting with a business partner at a Starbucks inside of a Barnes and Noble bookstore. My partner decided to call at the last moment and cancel, but I felt inside that despite my partner not being present, that I should go anyways.
I listened to what I call the voice, you know the one. The one that tells you to do things and you have no idea why, but when you follow it, something always happens. There was a strange sort of energy in the air that day. I made the trek to the book store and I sat and waited. I picked up a fantasy novel, not a genre I usually read.
I'd been a single guy for a long spell, had a few disastrous relationships, and I had asked God that if he loved me, then to not leave me single much longer. I wouldn't be picky about it. I just wanted someone I could hold onto at night, and someone who I could talk about life and the nature of the universe with.
I decided to order a drink and stood in line. Ahead of me this strange creature of a woman, elegant in a way I had never seen before, kind of caught my eye.
I didn't know quite what to do. My voice had lost its meaning in her presence and all that came out were some mumbling and bumbling sounds.
She ordered a strange drink, waited patiently for it to arrive, then took her drink to the back of the store and sat down.
Suddenly a plan flashed to my mind like lightning on clear day.
I ordered the exact same thing she had ordered, but all I really wanted was the receipt.
As soon as the receipt was printed I wrote my phone number on the back and proceeded to track the object of my affection back to wherever it was that she had gone to sit down.
The plan was brilliant, it was flawless! I would go up to her and hand her the receipt.
"Excuse me miss, but I believe you left your receipt back on the counter. I'd hate for you to lose it."
Without missing a beat she said, "Oh no, that's not mine, this one's mine." As she held up her own receipt.
My cunning master plan was foiled. I was distraught. I walked away in defeat.
Moments later it hit me. I was coming at this sideways.
Being dishonest wouldn't work even if it was meant to be humorous.
Changing tactics I went back to her and said, "Ok look, I know that the receipt isn't really yours. But I put my number on the back in hopes you'd give me a call sometime."
"Ohh," she said. Then she quickly took the receipt and put it in her purse, without so much as a glance.
After a moment or two of awkward silence I noticed she was reading what appeared to be a manuscript.
Desperate for anything resembling conversation I tried to ask some questions.
But each time I did so, this woman shot me down with a quick, curt, but not unfriendly reply.
"So what are you doing here?"
"Reading a manuscript."
"Oh that sounds interesting! What's it about?"
"I don't really know yet, it's just something different."
"How can you not know what it's about if you're the author?"
"I never said I was the author."
This process continued on for some ten minutes or so until I finally managed to extract enough information to deduce that she was part of a writers group and they had a regular weekly meeting there. However, that week, only she and her friend had shown up. She was reading her friend's manuscript while the friend browsed the store for a few minutes.
Eventually the friend came back.
She was night and day different from the girl of my affectations but stunning in her own right. Truly a woman of extraordinary grace and poise.
These two women could not have been more different. It was surprising that they were such good friends.
The first girl was lean, had long, pale red hair and despite thick glasses, she reminded me of a Tolkein elf, in a mousy sort of way. I always had liked mousy girls. I finally managed to extract a name from her, "Samantha."
The second girl was voluptuous and curvy, had thick shining brown hair and looked very much like a woman who would never find herself single. She introduced herself right away, her name was "Sophia".
Their differences went well beyond appearances. Samantha was guarded, reserved and not much of a talker.
Sophia was vivacious and outgoing. Not particularly flirtatious, but she was cool and confident.
As I contemplated both women I realized that this was a gift from on high. Either of these women would make a suitable match and Samantha was beginning to warm up to me.
So we talked, literally about everything under the sun. I think we sat down about 6 or 7 pm, we were still engaged in rapid fire conversation when they closed the store and kicked us out at 10pm.
This was a night that I never wanted to end. I only lived half a mile or less away. I hadn't thought to bring a car, preferring to walk instead. These women each lived far though. Samantha lived on the other side of the lake which was a 20 mile drive and Sophia lived up in the next county.
Instead of walking the ladies to their car I kept walking and talking with them. Eventually we walked all the way to my house, which has a big back yard with a patio and some patio furniture. We literally just kept talking about everything under heaven and earth. I told them both my story. How I had come to be who and what I am. They each told theirs in turn.
The night was magical!
Eventually sitting still for too long was taking its toll on my legs. I needed to get up and stretch and honestly I think better when I'm on my feet.
But where to go?
I remembered the rose garden. I wasn't sure if it was blooming or even open, but I figured why not walk these girls over there. It was a distance of a couple of miles but we could keep talking, plus we would be out under the moon and stars where anything could happen. The June night was warm and fresh.
I'll say it again, this night was magical and I'm not a person who believes in magic.
As we walked, I began to talk about the planets and the stars about how the ancients marked their times and seasons. Samantha was still interested, but Sophia had pretty much taken over the talking. She told about how she loved anthropology and archaeology, and how ancient peoples had wisdom that has now been lost.
We made it to the home of the richest lady in town. Her gate was locked, but over the fence hung clusters of roses. This night needed something. These roses were in full bloom and it was the middle of the night under a full moon.
I was in a strange position. One I could never have anticipated just 12 hours before. Here before me, were two beautiful women. Two women who were vast in their intellect and my fascination with each was boundless.
Nevertheless I knew that this night was created for me. Me alone in the whole universe. The night would last forever if I needed it to. Time had ceased and we existed in this little bubble of our own making.
The purpose, the why of it, was clear, I could have one, but not both. I could choose one and she would be it.
The one who would be my wife until the stars burned to ash, the last black hole evaporated and the next universe burst into being.
We would stand side by side holding hands while the entire universe, all of time and space unfolded before us.
This was what the universe was telling me, and some part of me is still there.
Quickly I plucked two roses that hung just above eye level. They appeared silver in the moonlight, though they were cream edged in crimson. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks, for reasons I still don't really understand. The same voice that brought me to that point said, "Whichever woman keeps hers the longest will be your eternal companion."
I could not have been more undignified as I wrenched the roses free, but these ladies took it in stride.
I went down on one knee and held out the roses, saying nothing more than, "Two beautiful roses for two beautiful women."
Then I got up, dusted myself off and we all walked back to my home and talked the entire night.
Eventually the sun came up. I could not have been less tired. I was energized, but Samantha was exhausted and wanted to go home. Sophia was happy to stay but she needed to take Samantha home because Samantha couldn't drive. I drove them back to Barnes and Noble, where Sophia retrieved her car. She promised to return soon.
Samantha left her rose behind in my car, Sophia took hers home.
From the moment of Sophia's return on, we stayed every moment together. Within a year we were married.
She never took extraordinary steps to preserve the rose, but she did keep it. In an old tea cup with clear packing tape over it. Nearly a decade passed and that rose never crumbled, never broke. It served as a symbol of our love and our relationship. Despite everything we've gone through, and some months and years were harsh, to say the least. Through it all, we stuck together.
One year we had to move and we put all our things in storage, including the rose. Like all the knickknacks and trinkets you place in storage, the rose sat alone and forgotten for a few years.
Last year my loving wife went to the storage unit and got everything out. We finally had a home large enough to put all our belongings. Unfortunately, the rose had suffered. It had developed mold, it had decayed. My wife said the smell was of death. Time and heat and moisture and neglect in the space of a single season had done what 8 years of travel could not.
There in front of the storage unit my wife decided to have a funeral for the rose. She buried it with tears in the gravel and dust next to the storage unit, holding the teacup close to her heart. That was one year ago today.
You might say the rose died, but the marriage survived: because our marriage can and will survive longer than a fragile flower. The marriage will survive after our bodies have burned to ash and the earth is gone.
I had a dream that I returned to that storage unit, which is hundreds of miles away in another state. I peaked through the iron fence, and on that spot where my wife buried the rose was a small bush with fiery cream and crimson buds, struggling to bloom again.
Images courtesy of:
Pintrest
New York Botanical Garden
Grower Direct
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