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.