The Plant

by Albert Rodriguez

The plant that I bought on Beaver Street was a very beautiful plant with an interesting name: Titan Arum Corpse flower. It was tall and colorful. It caught people’s attention right away. Some said that when fully flourished it looked like an erect penis; but the name—corpse—was a sign of things to come.

At home I flooded the plant with water—diluvian style. And, of course, with plants that are that big, and consume that much water, there are always leaks here and there. These leaks, in my case, were persistent for weeks. They were everywhere. What can I say? The plant was thirsty (and so was I). I didn’t really care about where the leaks went, as long as they didn’t puddle around my cabana, bringing about a flood of mosquitos.

One day Oscar, my husband, came to me hollering that the deck was “completely rotten.” He had spent multiple weekends fixing this deck with his own hands. But I don’t like to be hollered at.

“Well, you should have painted the damn thing!” I told him.

Everyone knows that the combination of quality paint and pressure-treated wood is an excellent remedy for water damage. I might have called him a “fart face” in the process of making my point. What can I say? I’m predisposed to fighting fire with fire.

But that verbal grenade wasn’t what did it. It wasn’t what ruined us. I walked away from him while he was still talking. That was the thing (somehow) that ticked him off.

He reacted by doing something he had never done—he kicked me in my buns (and I’ve always been on the deflated side when it comes to buns).

The momentum flung me forward toward the hot tea.

I took the hot tea. I turned. I threw it.

Oscar started swinging away like a dumb silverback.

I ran out the house like a crazy woman, and I didn’t stop hyperventilating until the neighbors called the cops.

That evening my husband went to jail.

It took a little while, but Oscar and I eventually got a divorce. It was uncontested but it wasn’t cordial. Today I could care less about my ex-husband’s whereabouts. At least that's what I tell myself on sunny days. But on rainy days, or when it's pitch-dark outside, it’s a different matter.

When Oscar got back home from spending the night in jail, he killed that beautiful plant with his own hands, and with a rage that today seems legendary. This little heated act left me with a bruised heart, but also with a fluttering pulse.

Albert Rodriguez is a new writer based in Brooklyn, New York. He has a degree from Borough of Manhattan Community College. His work has been featured in INK Pantry, The Rye Whiskey Review, Literally Stories, Platform Review, and The Piker Press.