Lady Garden

Maybe it’s because I feel trapped and bored as hell, maybe it’s because I’m jealous at how content she seems with her life, but I can’t stop thinking about this woman and all her flowers.

---

There’s a lady on my street that sells flowers. Not just any flowers. These ones are so beautiful, they’re outrageous. I can recognise some of the basics - the fat, pulpy roses, majestic looking irises, soft bundles of lilies of the valley, multicoloured freesias - even my favourite, sunflowers. But the rest are unrecognisable - there are ones that look like giant drops of blood, arranged in shades of reddish brown and gorgeous crimson. I sometimes see buckets filled with gigantic, pink leaves with a tinge of grey, the size of my head, or spiky orange petals with a purple underbelly, that look like a flower produced by an abstract artist. Occasionally, I see the ones that make me feel uneasy, their stems drooping under the weight of their fleshy-looking flowers, curled in a way that reminds me of a human ear. Or the curve of a foetus. 

The woman set up a few weeks ago, when spring started creeping up on us and the sun weakly filtered onto our busy main road. She’s there every day except Mondays and Tuesdays. I never see her eat or sit down. But she drinks copious amounts of water, so she must have a bladder of steel. She picked a great spot, right across from our flat, between the boutique and the hybrid cafe/yoga studio, just a few metres away from the overground. I work from home most days, and once it became obvious that neither Sasha or I would ever be interested in babies, we converted the spare bedroom into my little office. It overlooks the street, so I could spend all day watching her, if I wanted to. People are always walking past her stall and pausing, and sometimes a little queue forms. I get that part. 

But there’s something strange about her. I have this theory - it’s completely batshit, I feel like an idiot for even thinking it. But. I asked her once and she…I just don’t understand where she gets them all from. The flowers. They can’t all be real. Not after we lost almost all the bees. Replaced them with tiny, government-issued drones, the size of a thumbnail. Surely some of them must be made of plastic, or even silk? How on earth could a one-woman business afford to source all of these rare, beautiful pieces? Maybe it’s because I feel trapped and bored as hell in my marketing job, maybe it’s because I’m jealous at how content she seems with her life, but I can’t stop thinking about this woman and all her flowers. I asked her once, when I was heading back from M&S after a food shop last week. Even M&S just had a regular selection. Tulips, daffodils, roses, the occasional orchid. I complimented her on the flowers, told her the sunflowers were my favourite. Up close, I noticed how attractive she was too. She had the nonchalant kind of beauty I had always been drawn to in other women. Not effortless, per se, I could see she took care of her skin, had her nails painted and manicured, her hair always caught the light and seemed freshly washed. I got shy, forgot to ask her name, but when I asked her how she got all her flowers, she just smiled at me, shrugged, and said something really weird. “I get lucky, really. They’re easy to source - they’re almost a part of me.”

It made no sense. And then she plucked a sunflower - a real one - from the bunch and handed it to me, told me to have a lovely day and that she’d be thinking of me. It’s been six days, the sunflower is right here on my desk. I haven’t put it in water, but you’d think it was freshly cut. I can’t work out if she was flirting with me, if maybe she’s seen Sasha and I together and is trying to send me a little signal. I can’t work out if I want her to flirt with me. Maybe I’ve just made up this bizarre theory of where her flowers come from to give me a reason to go speak to her. To watch her. 

But then I think about what I noticed when I was speaking to her, and I’m convinced that I’m right. The scent. Flowers are meant to smell like flowers. Normally, a selection like that would be overpowering, right? You’d at least pick out the sharper, fruity fragrances, or that slightly sweet smell of decay when roots and stems begin to rot. Even the bamboo I grow at home sometimes emits a chemical odour when I change the water. Like petrol. But I couldn’t smell any of that when I stopped by. Instead, there was this subtle, musky smell. A little earthy, a little sour. Like bread dough, whilst it’s rising. It wasn’t bitter, or unpleasant. I liked it. But - and I truly can’t believe this, after all these years - it made me feel weirdly ashamed, because the smell reminded me of…you know. Women. Our smell. It made me think of myself, after Sasha comes up for air and kisses me.  

That’s when the theory first came to mind. And I know, I know. I sound deluded. But I can’t shake this thought that she grows these flowers from her vagina. I can’t. Even now, I’ll pick up the sunflower and press it to my nose and there it is again, faint, but unmistakable. That’s not what a sunflower smells like. 

I know that’s not evidence. I know I’m basing this off a woman I might have a crush on, a smell and a pavement covered in flowers that I’ve never seen before in my life - even before we lost all the bees - and maybe I need a therapist, not a theory. But fuck it, I’m convinced I’m right, regardless. Obviously I’m bored out of my mind. 

I think of her getting up in the mornings before she sets her stall up. Early, probably five or six am. I imagine her stretching, the muscles in her back and shoulders flexing as she rolls her neck back and forth. I imagine her yawning and opening her legs, each foot planted firmly on the floor as she reaches inside herself and carefully starts to pull. In my mind, the root of the flower would come first. She would have to work slowly, and gently, or the petals would come loose, the flowers would die. I imagine her setting up a full length mirror opposite her bed, so she can observe herself pulling beauty from her body and placing stem after stem onto the ground, until she feels like she has nothing left to give. I think she’d be serene, unbothered. Maybe she’s pleasantly surprised by what blooms from her every time, or perhaps she is able to birth specific colours and shapes. Maybe she makes them in her dreams. I wonder if it hurts her. 

I think about her setting aside some of the most beautiful ones, harvesting the seeds of all her flowers and leaving them on the windowsill to dry. After she comes home for the day, covered in sweat, she takes a handful of seeds and eats them with great care. I wonder what happens to the flowers she doesn’t sell. 

And then, from outside, a car door slams, and I jump. An angry voice shouts, “gently, for fuck’s sake.” 

It’s 4pm somehow.  

I should have been working, I should have finished this damn report today, and now I’ll have to rush it tomorrow morning. Sasha will be coming home any moment - I might even spot her walking out of the station if I stick my head out the window. I stand up, and immediately I notice the flower-woman staring up at me. Directly at me. When our eyes meet she smiles, and I feel the slick sensation of desire rushing through me. She’s wearing a cream coat over a long cotton skirt in some kind of neutral colour - something like taupe, or eggshell. I only have a vague idea of what those colours look like, but I imagine she’d know every shade of every colour. I’ve noticed she never wears trousers, just long dresses or skirts. I imagine her entire wardrobe to be cotton and linen. Soft. 

We’re still staring at each other. She takes a few steps forward, her glorious smile widening, and my head starts to throb. I want to go downstairs and open the door, I want to ask her - to inhale, to touch - but it’s like my legs have rooted themselves into the floorboards. Behind her I see a small trail of petals, the colour of faded lilac.