Page 58 - TheBridge_Vol16

ROSES FOR
MRS. ANDERSON
Morgan Scott
The first time I saw her was that unbearably
hot, sticky summer before my junior year.
Ziggy had asked me to start working for
her, and sent me out on my first delivery.
4 Sunnydale Drive. I stepped out of the
fluorescent green van with a plush bouquet
of seventy-five long stemmed red roses and a
shirt that clung to my back like plaster.
The Sunnydale Estates were a collection of
twenty-six perfectly groomed mansions with
circular driveways and marble fountains.
They were the kind of palaces you see on
MTV with bowling alleys and movie theaters,
and buzzers that open gates to stamped
concrete driveways. I’d always had a
fascination with the Estates and the pleasant
lives which inhabited them. I’d never even
stepped foot on a Sunnydale driveway until
that first delivery.
It took her three slow minutes to answer
the door, and when she finally did I was not
surprised to see the embodiment of an Estate
lady standing before me. Tall and thin with
freshly styled dark hair, designer clothes still
starch stiff, and a French manicure brand
new, un-chipped.
“Mrs. Anderson?” I asked, referring to the
card Ziggy had wedged into the middle of
the expensive red petals. She nodded, eyeing
the flowers, uninterested and unamused as
if I was selling magazines.
There was an awkward pause, and still new
to the whole thing, I cleared my throat.
46 | The Bridge
“They’re for you,” I said.
It was obvious that the roses were for her, but
she hesitated to take them for a moment too
long. My face turned crimson with the type
of embarrassment that only comes from
when a person makes you feel small. She was
staring at my chartreuse uniform, wet under
the armpits in the least flattering way, and I
could sense her pity for me, an intrigue with
the flaws of the less fortunate perhaps.
It was Mrs. Anderson who was intriguing.
Intriguing in the way that she was attractive,
but not stunning. Just pretty enough to
marry someone rich. Intriguing in the weird
way she propped the door open with her hip.
The peculiar smudge of fuchsia lipstick just
under her bottom lip. Too much perfume
that lingered in my nostrils, stinging.
Something was off by just a degree and it
was fascinating.
“From Christopher, aren’t they?” she asked
a minute later, extending her arms towards
me to reluctantly accept the bouquet. She
turned for a minute, but then spun back
around and shook the flowers in my face. I
flinched, thinking for a second that she was
going to beat me with the flowers.
Instead, panting, she brushed a piece of hair
from her reddened face.
“Goddamn it!” she said. A single ruby petal
fell slowly from the bouquet towards her feet.
Vol. XVI | 47