[ WP ] '' It 's no use watering dead flowers ''

I met her at a bar in Montgomery. I was at a convention; she just lived there. She was also the fourth girl I had hit on that night. She slapped me across the face when I tried to kiss her. But she smiled when she did it. A girl like her wouldn ’ t slap somebody she didn ’ t like. 
 
 She moved in with me three weeks later. She was young, and innocent, and new to the feeling of being wanted. You could probably say I took advantage of her. She might, now. 
 
 It ’ s hard to separate the memory of what we were from the knowledge of what we became. But God, we were so alive; I can tell you that much. We celebrated that first New Years in my bedroom because she was sick, and I was lonely, and it was hard to believe the world existed outside the two of us. I nicknamed her Jessica after the song by the Allman Brothers because she said so little and it said so little but they both meant so much to me. We started a garden together—I grew the flowers; she grew the vegetables. 
 
 I ’ m still not sure if it was love. But she made me question whether I had ever been in love before. She never did meet my parents. The day she was supposed to, she started vomiting and shaking like she was having a seizure. There was this look of flat, expressionless fear she would get when she remembered. It was like it was too much for her to react to. 
 
 She never told me exactly what had happened, but over the years, I had put the story together piece by broken piece. It was the night she woke me up holding a bottle of pills and wearing that blunted fear that I promised myself I would kill her father if I ever met him. I still would. 
 
 I was offered a job in Arizona three years into our relationship. I couldn ’ t say no. She came with me, but that was always going to be a mistake. She didn ’ t even like the smell. 
 
 We should have known the flowers would fail, at least. She left on Valentine ’ s Day. I had gotten her a present weeks before. I left it on the kitchen table, but she came and found me in the garden on her way out. 
 
 “ You didn ’ t have to get me a present, ” she had said. 
 
 “ I know. ” I didn ’ t look up from the flowers, withered even in February. “ I got it a few weeks ago—figured you ’ d still like it. ” A rice cooker. Nothing monumental. 
 
 “ You know, it ’ s no use watering dead flowers. ” 
 
 I stopped pouring and turned to face her. “ I thought they might do better in the winter. ” 
 
 “ It still a fucking desert. ” 
 
 I nodded. It was never going to work. “ It ’ s a good thing we never got married, then, isn ’ t it? That would make it harder, right? ” 
 
 “ It ’ s for the best. ” 
 
 She left not soon after. I couldn ’ t escape the feeling that there was no proper conclusion. That may have been the worst part, not feeling like it had ended. It was a hollow, empty sensation. Not broken, or particularly acute. The end had been weeks in the making. I was like a jack-o-lantern the day after Halloween, once the flame has been put out. Inevitable, yes, but no better for it.
