Yellow Rose Bloom
There was the solar eclipse shining down on them at the very end of a millennium. And he held her in his arms. Feeling so good, breathing through his heart like living in an aquarium, breathing, before the time has come to oxygenize through gills.
Who was cosmically struck and ready for delightful uplift? And who was ready for some technical fortune?
There was a couple beneath the solar eclipse. Embraced. And the celestial bodies kept moving, slowly.
Light was a precious thing these days, and next to light, money was considered even more valuable, helpful, adored in general, a booster in particular, when one was anxious to puJchase an ’59 Eldorado Convertible.
He loved these old cars with these fins and she loved these old cars with these fins. Once they both had touched fins softly and with care.
It should be a yellow fancy car, much brighter than a cab of course, yellow as light, yellow as the most smiling flowers, yellow as laughing lemons that congregate for natural acid fun, oh no no … yellow as the French’s America’s Favorite Mustard. Classic Yellow.
He loved mustard and she loved mustard. Did she? Oh how good it was with ham. And if they ever had won the lottery they surely would have filled a bathtub with that yellow mustard in order to have a mutual meal, to lick each other for pleasure’s sake. Oh yeah, they would have made love in that very yellow stuff.
If they ever had …
Not too much is known about this couple (sources of information had dried out too soon) except that one day he and she pulled up the same idea simultaneously.
„Let’s buy a lottery ticket“, they would say, holding hands, convinced that one of the lottery tickets would pave the way to heaven. Southwards.
„Let’s buy Quick Picks, Treasure Coves, Top Dogs, maybe they have Golden Cats too, right around the corner in the liquor store.“
Oh, the beginning of a trip? Heading south? There was a glossy town down there and funky people waiting.
„Let’s buy this yellow convertible and get down the road.“
Not too much was known about this couple, except that these things happened in America, and that tears fell down on every number. After they had scratched the lottery tickets and set the numbers free.
They watered the numbers with their own drops of sorrow. They would do the scratching together as though they were cutting a wedding cake. And they did a lot of weeping together since the numbers didn’t match the fortune for a long time. (Some said there were yellow tears rolling down their cheeks, but I would not believe that this is the truth.)
And then, in the middle of the night, the scream of excitement!
Numbers came alive. The postponed effect of the solar eclipse? However, people opened the windows and leaned out to see the lucky ones.
The couple was only heard, not seen, the man and the woman kept themselves well hidden when they picked up the money from the Lottery Company.
They kissed each other on the mouth and said: „let’s get on with doing what we love to do.“
Now they could afford to move into a colorful garden. It was the most beautiful garden on earth, on planet earth, with gorgeous plants of all kinds, lovely dressed up flowers, wimpy bushes, naked cacti, proudly speaking trees and ornery weed.
In the middle of this garden there was the yellow convertible. This dear friend had done a million miles, and the owners agreed that it deserved withdrawal from the endless road. And the convertible agreed to be modified, it actually was fond of being converted into a bathtub. It only took the man a few weeks to make the old convertible’s interior water-resistant. He sealed the inside with so much care, fingers nimbly touching the slits. And he sealed with the love he felt when he observed her talking and sleeping.
Some day they married in the bathtub while making love. Clean waters became dirty and when their bodies were in dirty movements they became clean.
There had been mutual fears that would blossom at the very edge of a yellow rose’s foliage. And when they made love in the tub the water would swamp over the tub’s edge. Some high tide. The one and only Pacific Ocean would have been envious.
So the ground around them was watered. Eventually, there were all kinds of roses growing. Purple roses, red roses, blue roses, green roses … and of course yellow roses. Some smelled wistful, some smelled heartful, some smelled obstacly, some smelled enchanting, some smelled like honey fused with moonlight in a traffic jam, some smelled lustful, some smelled like a Jack in the Heck (a walk from Drive-Thru-Food by Feet from Salinas to New York City) some spread the odor of reticence, some spread the odor of pink flies, some carried the sent of sea weed, some carried the sent of hopeless innocence, some roses would lick in search of guilt … .
Some say they hired a mermaid to harvest the roses weekly. (But I would not believe that this is the truth.)
When they died there was another sort of folding top. They were buried in the yellow bathtub; once again it was converted. Into a sarcophagus.
Not too much is known about the funeral except that nobody knows where they had found a place to rest in peace. She would lie like a mummy, arms crossed on her breast. He would lie under her body embracing her clumsily like a shark that was in love. Like a shark that was about to learn how to use the fins, that had never dwelled in an aquarium. And they would lie together. They would melt into each other. And it felt so eternal.
And breakers crashed on the beach somewhere else.