A Rose for Today
By James Callan
Do you remember when we went to Pamplona and ate so much Manchego that we slept through the running of the bulls? Or when we braved the bandits on backroads, riding on our Vespino from Barcelona to Madrid? In Toledo, you purchased a medieval axe, and later, in Córdoba, you explained that we couldn’t afford the handbag that I wanted. I was so angry that I threw your axe in the Guadalquivir. At the time, I let you believe it was stolen.
Do you remember when we stole Persian rugs in Tabriz? It was my idea, and you called me crazy, but it was you who wanted more than just the one. You haggled with the merchant while I picked my favorite pattern. We met in the alley at the coffee house. I couldn’t stop laughing. You were boasting. We were too young and stupid to realize the danger. But they were beautiful rugs. And we didn’t even keep them. We only used them to decorate the room that we rented, leaving them behind.
Do you remember the Abyssinian lion on the slopes of the Bale Mountains? When it entered the schoolyard and walked up to the little girl? She didn’t run, they said. She kissed it on the nose, they told us. They laughed at our expense, but it was true; no one seemed afraid. And do you recall? Long after the lion had left, we were still scared, looking over our shoulders at the end of the day as we walked home, wondering when it might come again, emerging from the trees like a ghost to kill us or let us kiss it on the nose.
That night, we made love, and the lions were roaring. You were grinning, and you roared as you mounted me. I laughed and kissed you on the nose. Do you remember the next day? A lion had killed a boy from the school down the road. We were so frightened, so disturbed that we could hardly get through our lesson for the day. Yet still, no one seemed afraid.
Do you remember the pickpocket in France? The way you grabbed his wrist and took back my wallet? How you had told him, in broken French, that you’d make boudin noir from his guts if he didn’t walk away, and walk away fast? You won’t remember the thrill I felt, because I never told you about it. But I’ll tell you now: the fear on the thief’s face was more beautiful, more priceless, than Monet’s water lilies.
Do you remember my favorite fragrance? Of course you do. Even after you forgot my name, you remembered my favorite flower. It was the scent that jogged your memory. I would bring them to you in a vase, filling your room in the hospital with heavy perfume. A dozen red roses. Much like you used to bring to me—for special occasions, or sometimes for none at all—in big elegant bouquets. It was the scent that made you say my name. Or maybe you were simply naming the flower. Either way, it made me happy to hear you say it. It was nice to live in the moment, to cherish the word when you said my name aloud. And later, after you were gone, to remember it, fresher than before.
Do you remember what I said that night when we made love? When, afterwards, as we listened to the lions roaring outside on the slopes of the Bale Mountains, I told you that if one of them killed you, I would visit your grave every day until I joined you in death? We thought it was funny until the next day, when we got news about the boy. We never saw a lion again, but something else was stalking us in the grass. It gets us all in the end, and it’s only a shame that the memories die when we do.
I’ve brought you roses, and in their scent is a world of memories. A rose for you today. A rose for you tomorrow. Sooner or later, your Rose for all of time.
THE END
Author Bio: James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, X-R-A-Y, Hobart, Reckon Review, and elsewhere. His 2nd collection, “Fish Out of Water,” is forthcoming from Anxiety Press.