Life is Funny Like That

Too. Weeds or Flowers?

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All of the street sounds melt together and drip away as Adrian unlocks his apartment door. No sooner do they go away when the thumping of a hoppy beat shakes the ceiling.

Upstairs neighbors.

They are the funnest people in the neighborhood, so he has heard.

A few lights flick on at his entrance. Adrian unwraps his scarf and pushes his vans off, eyes searching for a chocolate chip cookie-colored cat.

Successfully escaping his jacket, a pad of paws reaches his ears and he turns to see Irma purring as her back conforms to a corner of the wall. With a jingle of her bells, she is lifted off the ground. Adrian pats her velvety head, missing contact with another living creature. All he had received today, were uninterested stares and impatient glares. Haha, that rhymed.

It is better that way, though. Human contact is grosser than... well he can't think of anything at the moment, but a blog he had recently read made him keep his distance.

One of the emotional tabs in his head is that one. The one thing he never failed to forget, probably out of fear; there are more germs on your phone, keyboard, and cutting board than a toilet seat. His hands almost lose their grip on Irma as a flashback runs through his head.

For this reason and many others, Adrian hates people touching him. Only Irma has that privilege, and he soaks it in.

Irma, deciding she has her fill of love, escapes Adrian's arms and prances to her bowl that is still half full. She meows hungrily up at him as if half-starved.

"You derpy cat," he chuckles and shakes his head.

Turning on a few more lights, he snuggles into his gray 90's couch he had found off the side of a road. The condition is okay, besides the gaping hole in the back. You know the look, the ugly yellow foam, spilling out like a vanilla pudding waterfall. Except it is the opposite and it may have been a house for mice. Nothing a little interior designing couldn't fix, i.e., shoving it against the wall and throwing a blanket over the top. Oh and one of the wooden legs is missing, but a stack of encyclopedias so happens to be just the right size. And the weight of the couch and himself, whenever he sits in it, work as a nice flower press.

Flowers.

Adrian presses flowers. Not just any flowers, but dandelions.

His mother, Clara, used to bring giant bouquets of those detestable weeds into the house, a huge grin pushing out her ruddy dimples. She would set half of them onto the table in a dozen vases, and the other half went into encyclopedias. Yes, Adrian used to hate dandelions. They were weeds, they smelled like weeds, they grew like weeds, and they drove his mother psycho. That was his ten-year-old thoughts on the subject anyway. The worst part of the whole situation was that she absolutely refused to throw them out once they died. Long after the yellow of the petals became the weird pollen things, she still wouldn't get rid of them.

One fateful year, a heavy scolding ensued when he and his brother, Grant, attempted to sneak them out of the house to get rid of them. They barely reached the last step of the patio before they were caught by the ears and pulled back into the house, biting their trembling lips.

The ugly weeds were set back on the table and stern Hazel eyes looked between the two boys. With a few well-thought-out words, they were pointed to their bedroom, and what else were they to do but obey? When your mom glares at you and yells at you, it seems your life flashes before your eyes, and a few years jump off the end of your life span.