Mulberry Anthers

The delicate bodega on 7th Street always had lush mulberry anthers in the shop window. Walking home each day, I would see fresh flowers. Never a time could I recall when they were wilted or dead. They weren’t synthetic though. I knew because more than once I had gone into the tranquil shop and caressed the silken petals. I remember seeing you for the first time, third day of school and you were on my bus. Me, being the frazzled freshmen I was, sat down quickly towards the front of the bus, closest to the isle. The first thing I remember seeing was the back of your head. Your hair, absolutely gorgeous, short chestnut tresses grazed the top of your shoulder. Your hair was all I wanted mine to be, messy, yet beautiful, without having to try. You were applying your makeup in a rush. I was amazed at how you were able to do so with the rigidity of the ride. The ride whose force means much more to me now than I could ever imagine it would become. As you held your compact up to your face I caught your reflection and damn you looked good. Hell, I couldn't even do makeup if I tried. I remember hoping that maybe when I became senior like you, I could look at least half as good.

In that first month, I had come to know your name, learned your brother was a familiar face in my grade, and found out you were dating the brother of one of my silly fifth grade friends. I was on the bus, in a one seater this time, making sure I wouldn’t attract unwanted company; because everyone knows I hated interacting on that bus. I had seen the two of you walking together, his arm around your shoulders which admittedly seemed a bit awkward since you had four inches on him. But I didn’t know any of you back then, and just waved it away. The bus dropped me off at my regular stop and yet again the livid mulberry panthers were in the shop window.

I don’t think I saw him walk you to our bus again but I thought it was because I wasn’t that attentive. It was October when I had started talking to him in the club we were in. Before, it was nothing more than him telling or teaching me how to use the tools. But one day, he sat down with my friends and I and talked. It was a casual conversation but I remember thinking, hey, he’s pretty cool. And even after walking home later, the mulberry anthers stayed visible on the windowsill.

I stopped noticing you in the mornings on the bus, not that you were not noticeable, but other things filled my mind. Now he and I got closer, really sort of close. Our conversations had developed from just work to more personal endeavors. It was a Monday when I had learned that the two of you had broken up, three months ago, in November. Up until that point I assumed you two were still together. I learned why you had broken up and my perfect porcelain image of you had changed a bit. I now knew you had flaws but oddly enough, it made me want to know you more. So like the curiously paranoid girl I am, I found your profile. It wasn’t that hard, just typed your name into the search at and there you were. Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully, your profile was public. Having access to your page let me see just how truly beautiful you were. In the beginning it was less frequent, maybe visiting once every 3 days. But it seemed the closer he and I got, the more the checking up escalated. I’m not sure why it did or maybe I am, but I would check up on you compulsively everyday. It came to a point where your profile would be the first thing to pop up in my search bar whenever I typed a ‘p’ or an ‘s’ on both my laptop and my phone. As I walked past the bodega, the mulberry anthers were still full of luster, but a small group of petals collected at the base.

Come March, though the grass was clad in snow, the warmth that he brought held out the cold. I had restrained myself from connecting before, knowing it would hurt to be rejected. But now I no longer had to. I allowed myself to bask in the amorous splendor of his embrace, enveloped in the tenderness of our midnight locutions. And once he was mine, the bodegas mulberry anthers seemed more lushious then they have ever been

I remember that day, the day I knew I crept into your thoughts. The day before, you had sat down next to me, simply because there were no other seats. Not a word exchanged, but you didn't know of me and him. But that next day, as he waited for me, you were there next to him and politely, he excused himself from you. From the shift in your eye I knew you recognized me, but you didn’t say anything. Later that day, he walked me to my, no, our bus. Our hands were interlaced and before we parted we he held me and left a delicate kiss on my forehead. But as I got onto the bus, I saw you, looking out the window to the spot where we exchanged our goodbye, instantly feeling the terror, hoping you didn’t see. Do you hate me? I don’t want you to hate me. I had wanted to talk to you eventually, maybe become friends. But the next day my fears were confirmed.

It was the first and only time I heard you talk of me. Now I’m not sure if you meant for me to hear what you told your friend. We were close but I had headphones in, so maybe you thought I wasn’t listening, but trust me, when it comes to your voice I always do. You told her about hating your ex, wanting him to die, how he didn’t prioritize you. I thought to myself, ‘he could be anyone’. But I heard you say you saw him with someone new, and your friend looked in my direction. When she turned back to you I heard her whisper “Don’t worry, she’s not that pretty.” When I know you weren't looking, I glance down at my outfit, maroon sweater, jeans, beat up canvas shoes and I didn’t need to catch my reflection to know my ponytail was a mess. As I got off the bus that day, the of cluster fallen petals seemed to have gotten larger, but still, the mulberry anthers were spry in their vase.

My relationship with him progressed, and he’d say sweet things in an attempt to make me smile. And it worked. It worked almost too well. Compliments always brought on a bit of negativity which seems irrational, but it was true. They were nice, but it was a just the wrapping of the package, a pleasant facade to intrigue me. Once I dove into the package, it was as if i jumped into the rabbit hole. Compliments were things I had earn each day, prove to others as well as myself i deserve them. So whenever he complimented something about me, I would find it on you. Try to decipher if I was better or not, reading the curves and edges of your body as they were code. But soon, he didn't even have to say anything for me to compare myself to you. Every day, I tried to get to the bus before you so I could see you pass me, I wanted to analyze every moment I got, study your figure as deeply as a sculptor studies its muse. Whenever we pull up at your stop, I take one earbud out, to hear your voice. Everyday, you say to the bus driver ”Thank you have a nice day” and again as you walked home, I examined what would become my nuanced demise. I was a clumsy 15 year old and you were a high held 18 year old. I questioned over and over why I was with him when you were clearly so much better. Never had I imagined that the holes in the road being the least harsh thing on that ride.

But I started to work on myself. It started with the makeup. At first just a few gentle sweeps of mascara which then evolved into me devoting almost 20 minutes a morning to my complexion. Next was the style, I owned a bunch of upscale clothes but was always too self conscious to wear them; Thinking they would draw too much attention, or make people think I was trying to be someone I’m not. But at this point I was desperate to look good. Then, like I knew it would, one of my bad habits had escalated to a point it never reached before. As long as I can remember, I’d come rushing back to it if i felt inferior or simply just bad about myself. It was as if emptiness somehow served as a refuge. It wasn't long before I started to get compliments. People saying how my style and makeup inspired them and others saying they wish they had the willpower to be as active as me. But I wouldn't wish this upon anyone. Although their compliments fueled me to keep on, I felt like a monster because I now saw bodies through bitter jarring lenses. I walked past the bodega and though only a few petals lay below, the mulberry pigment was seemed too vivid to be true.

And that day in the back of his car, the air saturated in passion twisted in the smell of leather. His hands were on my bare skin and though it wasn't the first time they grazed that region, the wave of self consciousness rushd over me. He made a complimented and though it painted rose onto my cheeks, I couldn’t help but think about you. You and how he must've said the same things. Again I pondered, why me? You’re so much better. I could try but no paragon I could conjure will ever capture your full caliber. He dropped me off a few blocks away from home, per my request and as I walked in the warmth of the May sun, I visit your profile again. I can name the posts on which he commented on and I know exactly what he said in them. And I know that was all before he was mine, but I can't help but look. He adored you, as he should have. But now its pointed at me, the girl who doesn't deserve it. We have never exchanged a word before, I’m not even sure you know my name. And I can't comprehend the amount of power you have over me. I feel a quake envelop my stomach, and smile just a bit. As I pass the bodega, the anthers are wilted, and tarnished brown petals lay at the base.