The Sweet Rotting Scent Of Rebirth

20250827

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

It was funny. The flowers hadn’t smelt of much when they were fresh. They’d been pleasing to the eye, very colourful, but done nothing for the nose.
Had he bought them for Emma, as a present? Or had she bought them for herself, as a treat?
He supposed it didn’t matter now.
Either way they had sat pretty on the kitchen windowsill, which was about the only place in the little flat to put flowers where they were visible without being in the way. And he and Emma had admired their transient, dead beauty while it lasted.
It was amazing how long something dead could look pleasant from the outside.
The flowers had wilted. Desiccated. He’d kept meaning to throw them out. But he only really noticed how bad they were when looking at them, and he was in the kitchen doing some mundane task which seemed far more important than dealing with the flowers, so he told himself he’d do it later, of course he’d remember this time…
Presumably Emma had been doing much the same.
Weeks had passed. The weather turned damp. As it always did at this time of year. And the flowers on the windowsill absorbed that once life-giving water and started to rot.
Well, he supposed it was still giving life - to the microbes devouring the hollow shell.
And he hadn’t even noticed. They’d long become almost invisible. Until he smelt that cloying musty sweetness.
At first he’d assumed Emma was burning one of those cheap scented candles again and was resolved not to complain. But no.
It was dead flowers rotting on the windowsill.
He stood, first mug of tea cupped in his hands, and stared through the flower corpses into his own soul.
Could things have been different?
If he hadn’t been laid off… Or had managed to find a new job… Or had dealt better with the stress of being out of work…
If Emma’s mum hadn’t gotten sick… Or had gone downhill less suddenly… Or if he’d been better prepared to support her…
Or perhaps it was the smaller, more frequent choices which had led them here. Him choosing work which paid well but sucked him dry, leaving little life for himself and less to offer her. Them moving to try boosting Emma’s acting career, ending up out here where they didn’t have family or friends.
Giving each other space, lots of space, because they didn’t know what else to give and didn’t know how to ask. Always assuring the other that everything was fine, for fear of the truth becoming reality. Smiling and holding hands while admiring dead flowers.
“I keep meaning to throw them out.”
He started, suddenly aware of Emma close behind him. This kitchen was only just big enough for two people.
She continued “But, well, I’ve been so busy, and they were still quite pretty, and…”
“Yeah.”
“And… they were the last present you got me, before we…” She trailed off, still unable to pin a tidy word on it.
Everyone they’d notified had assumed they’d fought or something. Rushed to offer advice on making up. But no. There had been no screaming row, no sniping, not even anger. Just… old, aching barriers giving way.
Emma had been gifted a bottle of bubbly. She’d brought it home. They’d both drunk more than was sensible, perhaps hoping that the bubbliness would be contagious. And then…
Had he brought it up? Had Emma?
He supposed it didn’t really matter now.
What he remembered of that late night confessional, after they woke up in each other’s arms, was that they’d finally said everything they’d been bottling up.
The saying, like the bottling, had been done in love. And just like the bottling the love didn’t make it hurt less.
Of course, breaking up an eight year relationship wasn’t something you should rush into. They had talked it over sober, in bits and awkward pieces, around the parts of life which marched heedlessly on. It was over a week later that they agreed they ought to start telling people.
That had been… three months ago? Middle of the summer.
Those flowers really had been kicking around far longer than they should.
Emma flicked the kettle on, and he shuffled sideways, them rotating so she could use the kitchen and he was hovering in the doorway.
“It’s been hard letting go.” She admitted to the flowers.
“Sorry.” He murmured. “I’m still trying to find a new place. Greg said he’ll help with the move, but even with rent being cheaper back home-”
She turned to him, her face at once contrite. “Oh, I didn’t mean-”
“I know, I know,” he winced and waved his free hand, “sorry, I didn’t mean - it’s just, I don’t think either of us can really, you know, move on like this.”
“I suppose not.” She slotted bread into the toaster. “It’s… funny. Though. These past few months are the happiest I’ve been with us in years. Or is that sad?”
“Both, I suppose.” He swirled his tea, watching the cold bright twinkle of the overhead lights wink at him. “I… I wish I’d noticed.”
“I should’ve told you sooner.”
“I should’ve noticed how I felt, though.”
“Oh. Well, yeah. We should have.”
She got a cereal bowl down for him, since she was between him and the cupboard. He got the milk out and snagged the cream for her coffee while he was there.
Little gestures, the sort which weren’t weird to make towards a roommate. Silent, tentative, helpless whispers of “I still care about you, even if my love for you has died”.
He looked past her, through the flowers, and mused “I suppose once you’ve admitted something’s dead you can start breaking it down to… fuel whatever comes next.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Emma smiled at him. A much smaller smile than she used to flash. Yet it actually reached her eyes.
They ate breakfast together standing in the kitchen. Admiring rotting flowers.

Prompt was “Rotting flowers can still smell sweet”.