Page 45 of The Blue Rose
Pissed she backed out, after shepromisedme she would be there to help, I just ignore the message. I love Jessica, but she is the biggest flake I know, and it drives me crazy. She has always been on her own time, but since my mom passed away, she only really shows up when I’m in a spiral. If I’m not on the verge of a mental breakdown, it’s just crickets from her.
Chewing my lip, my fingers hover over the screen, I open my messages, and send a text to Aster before I lose my nerve.
Serena
I had fun last night.
I place my phone back on the nightstand, and start to get ready for a busy day ahead.
I sitin the long line of cars waiting to take their place, ready to park and unload what I have brought to sell. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I look down and grab my phone. The message I sent earlier to Aster was read over an hour ago, but no response.
My stomach bottoms out, my mouth forming a frown from being left on read. Waking up to him gone is one thing, being left on read is another. My insecurities from the first time come to the forefront. I bring my hands to my mouth and start mindlessly chewing my nails to the bed. His reasoning for making me feel unimportant, again, better be a damn good one.
Thinking better of myself, I type out another quick message, hoping this time I’ll get an answer.
Serena
Hey, I’ll be at the flea market today, selling my paintings, it’s on first street at 10am. This isn’t an invitation, although if you want to come, you can. I’m letting you know, so if you try to contact me and I don’t answer, that’s why.
It’s been five years since I’ve done one of these. I used to do them every Sunday when my mom was still alive, before she got really bad. She would come with me, so excited to be a part of something that meant so much to me. Little did she know, her being there is what made it so special. Jessica always said she would come, but never did. The things in her life were more important than me. Tears fill my eyes as I walk through thecenter to find my assigned spot. My mom was my biggest fan. She was my inspiration for my art. She was the one who would push me to sell it. I was always hesitant, convinced they weren’t good enough, but when all but a couple paintings would sell, she would just sit there beaming, looking so proud and honored to have been a part of everything. I couldn’t help but smile as well, her joy and confidence contagious.
After she passed, I stopped. I stopped painting. I stopped coming to the market. I stopped living. I just couldn’t find myself wanting to do anything. I couldn’t force myself to do the things I knew I needed to, especially the one thing I looked forward to most with her.I am so upset that Jessica canceled on me.We made these plans so long ago. Sheknewhow hard it was for me to come back here, for me to even start painting again. Sometimes, she’s so selfish, but she’s the only one I got, so I cut her some slack. She has a life outside of me.
After everything is unloaded and set up just right, I snap a couple pictures to post on my Instagram, for my followers to see, and have a chance to come out to purchase. I didn’t do a good job of promoting the market, too caught up in a certain someone who makes me see stars.
Once I am satisfied, everything is perfect, I sit down in the chair and wait for the market to open, my legs bouncing with nervous energy. The other vendors, those who have helpers, get the chance to walk around and get first choice, before the crowd starts to come through. I used to do that. My mom would watch, and we would take turns walking around. There’s something special about wandering around the market before it’s open. Something no one else gets to experience. It’s hard to explain.
Not today though. Today I’m all by myself.
Scrolling mindlessly through TikTok while I wait for the market to open, my thoughts are interrupted when someoneclearing their throat stands in front of my tent, to gain my attention.
I look up and see the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. If I swung that way, I’d let her step on me, and say ‘thank you,’ with a smile. I can tell she’s taller than me, without even needing to stand up. Her white blonde hair, that looks like Elsa’s fromFrozen, curls that falls over her breast, and down her back. I find myself swallowing, as my eyes travel down and up her body. She’s wearing black leather pants, I know if she turned around they’d make her ass look amazing. She’s wearing a black crop top, her flat stomach drawing my eyes to it, I squint my eyes and see a red jewel pierced on her belly button.
When I finally tear my eyes away from her body, I look at her face and the smirk playing on her lips, with her golden brown eyes, has me squirming in my seat.Am I getting turned on by this woman?I stand up to ask her if she needs any help, but when her eyes travel down my body, and she steps closer, making me step back, the words lodge in my throat.Yep, totally getting turned on by her.
I swallow past the lump, “Can I help you with something?”
She tilts her head as if she didn’t understand my question. She reaches up and grabs a piece of my hair, lifting it to inspect it. “I like your hair, it's the color of a raven.” I look at where she’s looking, and she drops my hair, walking over to look at the paintings, as if she never touched me. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She skims her perfectly manicured fingers across a painting of a flock of ravens, titled ‘Unkindness’. “Like this,” she says. “Did you know ravens are associated with death and illness? They also never forget a pretty face.” She walks back over to me, brushes her hand across my cheek. “If I were a raven, I’d never forget your face.”
Is she flirting with me?I touch the spot she just touched, and stare in awe at how hypnotic she is. Here I am letting this goddess touch me, and instead of telling her to back off, or to keep her hands to herself, I stand frozen letting her do what she wants.
Walking back over to the paintings, she pulls the one I painted of a lone fox, with a bloody mouth and paws, sitting in the forest, an assortment of colors in the sky. “I’ll take this one.”
We walk over to the podium I have set up, she hands me her card, and I swipe it. “Thanks.” She says and walks away with the painting tucked under her arm.
My brain starts working again, and I yell after her, “I forgot to wrap your painting!”
She turns her head, her pearly whites showing as a smile crests her face, “No need. I’m sure I’ll see you again.” With those parting words, I watch her walk away and stand in a daze.
What does seeing me again have to do with protecting her painting?
I see two friendly faces of the elderly couple Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks walking over to my table, breaking the spell I was put under.
What was that?
The Fredricks have been married for forty-seven years. They own Fredericks Flowers and come to the market every Sunday to sell their gorgeous bouquets. The last time I saw them was at my mother’s funeral, they made a beautiful wreath to put over her grave. It was full of big and bright red roses, her favorite.
