You have no items in your cart. Want to get some nice things?
Go shopping
She was so thankful for the sudden field of sunflowers. “Stop. Stop the car,” she said. Ken gazed at her with a “What now?” expression. She was out of the auto without a word and into the sea of bobbing yellow heads. They held the promise of something more for Cheryl than the empty road where she and Ken had been driving.
Ken surveyed the massive field. “That’s a lot of yellow.”
Cheryl had always found herself entangled with men like Ken who clung to her like stubborn burrs and were impossible to brush off.
Little did they realize Cheryl could almost hear the flowers singing, Walking on Sunshine.
She waded further into the field, the thick stalks enclosing her with an unfamiliar embrace. She tilted her face to the rays of the sun and electric blue sky and swayed.
Ken stood on the road, squinting at the bright light, searching. “Cheryl?”
The sharp edge of concern in his words, brought a peculiar satisfaction with each, “Cheryl?” It eased what earlier had been brewing inside her while driving with Ken as he had droned about aquarium fish, anti-chlorines, PH balancers. It wasn’t what she’d imagined. She’d expected playful laughs, verbal foreplay.
The centers of the flowers were velvety. She held her hand out and touched them. Ken called again. Each time he called, Cheryl measured the depth of his love by the level of worry in his voice. And with each call, she felt a prick of irritation.
She studied the flowers, their perfect rows of petals, golden centers, such perfection, and consistency. She buried her face in their centers and relished their softness against her skin. Ken stopped calling. Soon the field grew eerily quiet, and the thick greenery felt sinister. A single fly fluttered. She was free.
She peeked through the petals looking for Ken. He was no longer standing on the road. She craned her neck to spot him. He was on the other side of the car, opening the door. He got in and started the motor.
Cheryl sprang to her feet and raced towards him. Blossoms hit her arms, chest, face. Something she didn’t understand propelled her. Something so huge she simply couldn’t see or admit it to herself. Why are things only of value when they’re at risk of being lost?
She runs and runs toward the car and arrives just as it is pulling away. She bangs on the trunk. “Stop! Ken Stop!”
The vehicle halted. Then there was only the low growl of the engine and the acrid smell of exhaust. The motor shuts off and the doors click as they unlock. She leans on the trunk with both hands catching her breath. She hops into the car, fastens her seatbelt and Ken puts the car in forward. He remains silent. As she hears the car accelerate, she pulls down the sun visor on her side and peers into the mirror. She can see the sea of yellow begin to recede into the distance. The silence remains taut and thick with something she can’t name. But in the mirror, she sees her face. Pollen clings to her cheeks, lips and nose, covering her face in gold.
About Andrea Marcusa
Andrea Marcusa's writings have appeared in , Gettysburg Review, Cutbank, River Styx, River Teeth, Citron Review, and others. She’s received recognition in a range of competitions, including Smokelong, Cleaver, and Raleigh Review. She's a member of the faculty at The Writer's Studio and also a member of the school's Master Class where she studies with Philip Schultz.
- Web |
- More Posts(1)
