#75

She had been away from the orchid for six nights. Truthfully she had forgotten about it until she returned to her makeshift room in the attic. She put her bags down and ran to it, nearly smacking her head on the pitched ceiling.

Two stems that stood parallel when she saw them last now leaned towards each other. They reminded her of the long legs belonging to the girls on the volleyball team in the way that they were never quite straight but never touched. Some petals had grown crispy at the ends, but nothing had fully died.

And she couldn’t help herself. She picked up the ceramic pot and ran it to the bathroom, letting the thinnest stream of cold water penetrate the mossy desert of soil.

The little snot faces of the orchid flowers smiled and thanked her for the drink. Why she had done it plagued her for the rest of the night. She swore she could hear them mocking her in oxygen filled whispers for not having the strength to let them die sooner.