‘One second,’ Wendy shouted. She pulled up her leggings, slipped on a Black Sabbath t-shirt and ran downstairs, quickly regretting not putting on a bra, her face just about surviving the ordeal.
She opened the door ready to berate a couple of Jehovah’s witnesses, but was left speechless at the size of the bouquet hovering before her. A tiny woman popped her head around the flowers, ‘I believe these are for you,’ she handed them to Wendy, ‘you lucky thing.’
A warm feeling came over Wendy, threatening her usually robust character. The only flowers she’d ever received were a tired bunch of dandelions she’d won in a wet t-shirt competition. In the absence of a vase, she filled a pint glass with water, and squeezed the flowers into their new home. They certainly brightened up the faded walls and tatty brown carpet.
With sparkling eyes, she opened the accompanying envelope, but felt a sense of betrayal as soon as she started reading, ‘My dear Imelda, someone like you deserves all the pretty things. All my love, Jimmy.’
Wendy let out a heavy sigh. Of course the flowers weren’t for her. Only pretty people deserved pretty things. Still, they looked nice, ‘sorry Imelda,’ she said to the flowers, ‘they’re mine now.’
An hour later, the door knocked again. Wendy tutted because she’d been napping. She was going to a gig in a few hours and she wanted to be fully conscious for it. She stuck her feet into bat shaped slippers and stomped to the door, flinging it open with more force than she’d meant.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said the hairy 6ft bloke standing before her, ‘but I believe some flowers were delivered here that were meant for someone else. You wouldn’t happen to know what I’m talking about, would you?’
Typical, thought Wendy, ‘one second.’ She pushed the door to, and when she returned she shoved the pint of flowers into the hands of her unexpected guest, ‘they’re too good for me anyway.’
He gave her a quizzical look, ‘why would you say that? a hot chick like you should have all the pretty things of this world.’
She couldn’t help but smile, with the right words, he’d broken down her usually hard to scale defences. ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend, Jimmy?’ She rocked back on her heels, ‘Imelda, isn’t it?’
‘Imelda’s my ex-mother-in-law,’ he chuckled, ‘she not been well and…’
‘Sorry,’ Wendy blushed, ‘I’m good at putting my foot in it.’
‘Easy mistake I guess. How did you know my name?’
‘I read the card.’
He nodded to her t-shirt, ‘Sabbath fan, hey? Hold these a minute.’ He gave the flowers back to Wendy and opened his jacket, revealing his own Sabbath shirt. ‘They’re playing tonight.’
‘I’m going,’ she said.
‘Me too, perhaps I’ll see you there?’
She handed back the flowers, he put up his hand, ‘keep them,’ he winked, ‘there’s more than one person in this world who deserves pretty things.’
Wendy smiled.
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