The little black sparrow on my knee tells me “Today will be the conquering.”I lathered the shaving cream over his little black beak and try to get the stubble without nicking my skin. I am not doing this very well. Soon, there are little pink streaks in the cream as I am washing it off. It does not sting, but I can see the little wells of blood starting to rise.

I turn the water off and step out of the tub and onto the shag bath carpet, its threads twisting around my toes. I am standing in front of the mirror.

Through the foggy mist that has accumulated on the glass, I look beautiful and dainty. A pale, creamy blob of naked flesh. My breasts look perfect, the way I imagine them to always be and the rough outline of my collar bone is more protruding than I remember it. My fingers run across the condensation that is stationed on my face. Through the five little lines I just created, I look jumbled. My nose and my eyes do not seem to match up correctly. I can only make out one ear clearly and my lips are still hidden beneath the mist.

I turn the hot water on again so that I slowly disappear. I am not supposed to look perfect.I am still at my kitchen table at three forty-nine. The milk is no longer cold and my crunch berries have gone soggy. Three minutes later, I get up the energy to pour the bowl out in the sink.

I am late to work, but as I am riding my bike down the street my skirt gets caught on the upper part of my thigh, releasing the bird on my leg. He tells me “Time is just a memory.” So I slow down. And enjoy the ride. My boss doesn’t even chide me anymore. I throw my bag down under the counter and go into the back room and turn off the sprinkler system. The roses look nice today.An hour later, I am back on my bike going the opposite direction as before.

1347 West Hill Avenue. Fourteen blocks.Seven blocks later, I am in a part of the city I have never seen before. That is not true; it is a part I do not see often enough. I recognize the brownstones, but I have only been on this sidewalk. But I am on this sidewalk every Thursday.

When I get to 1329 I slow down. The little tree is coming closer and when I reach it, I use the heel of my shoes as a brake, just like my mother always told me not to do, and rest the bike against the tree. I climb the six short cement stairs that leads to the double doors. By now I should have my own key, but I like buzzing myself in.

I reach for the second button from the top in the right column and press it using my middle finger. Only once and the door in front of me clicks and I enter.Mrs. Barrett lives on the sixth floor at 1347 West Hill Avenue. Apartment three. She was always standing at the open door, waiting. The hallway would fill with the musk of her perfume and whatever it was she was cooking that day before I ever made it past the four story.

“I brought you French Honeysuckles today, Mrs. Barrett,” I told her as I reached the landing. Her smile grew, and she gently reached out her hand. I placed the bouquet lightly in her grasp as she turned and walked further into the apartment. I closed the door quietly and followed.

She removed yesterday’s white Daisies and slipped the fresh stems into the vase on her kitchen table. “What does today bring?” She said delicately, not facing me. She disappeared into the kitchen as I pulled out the small notebook I carried in my bag. “Rustic beauty,” I answered. She emerged from the other room only to look at me with those eyes.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Never,” I said. “Antique has a much better ring to it.”

She pursed her lips, but her old eyes were still smiling and left the room again. She came out with two large glasses filled to the rim with a light-colored liquid and stack of letters. As she set the tray down, she set one glass in front of me and another at her place at the head of the table.I never dared to drink from the glass after the first sip. The directions on the packet of lemonade were always misconstrued as two cups of sugar and not tablespoons.

I picked up the first letter in the pile. It was where we left off last week. I slipped my finger under the crease of the once sealed envelope. It was brown with age, almost as if it had been tea-stained in such a manner that it was only made to look as old as it really was.

Mrs. Barrett leaned back in her chair and left her lemonade untouched, her eyes closed, as I began to read aloud.”March twenty seventh, nineteen twenty seven. My dearest Marie. It has only been months, though the days grow longer, making it seem like years since I have been able to feel your touch or run my fingers through your delicate locks…”

When I get home I am met with the unwashed dishes of this mornings’ cereal bonanza. My feet will not let me stand long enough rinse the warm milk out of the bowl and I collapse onto my futon, only inches away.My cell phone is buzzing away. Three missed calls. Four new voice messages. I know who they are from.

The sparrow is looking up at me from his slanted angle of my leg. “Ignorance is not always bliss,” he says. I am sure he is just mocking me now. I do not need a sparrow to tell me what to do. I let the phone keep buzzing, knowing he will be waiting by the phone whenever I decide to call him back. If ever.

Muffin lands on my stomach in a giant heap of fur. She is a predictable being. Purring only when she knows I will feed her or pay her more attention than the mailman.I hear the polyphonic chords of the generic ringtone I assigned to the generic boyfriend whom I never call back starting to play again in the back of my mind. But I am drifting off to sleep…

He has stopped asking questions as to why I am always late and where I disappear to every Thursday afternoon and the occasional Monday. I was unpacking the shipment of Hyacinths that were left on the back loading dock when I heard the plastic flap of the back curtain being opened.

“I am not paying you to daydream, you know.”I am not paying attention to what he is saying. He will not fire me, I’ve tried.

“What else would you pay me to do?” I do not particularly want to test him today, but I am not in the mood.He sighs and walks back through the plastic curtain dividing the front and back of the store. I make a mental note to be nicer to him. He is the only reason I still have this job. He means no harm, usually.

I am sure that he is helping a customer when I hear the bell ring of the door to the front of the store opening. When I hear his low murmur about potting soil and fertilizer, I pluck four or five white Hyacinths from the clay pots I just unwrapped. I make sure they are short enough to fit nicely into the pocket of my shoulder bag.

I have moved on to the mix of Zinnias and Posies by the time he returns to the loading dock, where I now spend most of my days.—I have rung the bell for the third time and there is still no answer.”Mrs. Barrett,” I finally say through the slotted intercom. “Are you awake?”I wrack my mind trying to remember if she told me not to come today. Maybe she had some sort of appointment. I can’t remember. I frantically ring the buzzer a few more times before another resident exits the building. Without looking to conspicuous, I grab the handle before the door clicks shut and walk inside.

There was no answer when I knocked on her door either. Her neighbor finally cracked her own door open just a bit and whispered something to me in Italian. I shook my head lightly. “I don’t understand.” The old woman sighed and returned to her own apartment. It was four fifty five. I was late, again.

I left the small bouquet of Hyacinths that I picked yesterday and a few Violets that I added just before I left the store. I tore out the little piece of notebook paper that I had scribbled on. Hyacinths (white) – unobtrusive loveliness. Violets- modesty, purity. They were still cradled in the nook of the door frame as I pedaled away towards the east side.—It was much the same for the next few days. There was always that pained look on his face whenever I walked into the store.

I almost started to feel bad. But he never said anything to me. I think he knew better.
I was snipping rose stems today. There were white, red and pink roses. But it was only September. The watered down remnants would stick in between my fingers, leaves holding on for dear life.

The phone rang in the front and on the extension next to my table. I might have almost answered it, but he got to it first. There was the same faint murmuring and some hushed silence. Some sort of hallmarked statement and the click of the receiver.I was looking back down at the roses in my hand when I heard the swish of the plastic curtain opening.

He walked over to the table and grabs a bin of roses that I have not gotten to yet and walks to the other side of the room, where we keep the arrangements. “Make yourself useful,” he is walking back over to my table of rotten stems. “Take these to West Hills.” He hands me a slip of paper with the address on it and four small assortments decorated with Lilies and Sweetbriar roses. Funeral arrangements.