The Winter Garden – Part 2: Bloom

In the last week of February, the cereus began to bud.

Ingrid had been waiting two years. The plant was a stubby grey thing that looked like a dead stick for most of the year. But on one night in late winter it produced a single enormous white flower, scented like vanilla and night, which opened at dusk and was gone by dawn.

"Tonight," she said, quietly, at closing time. "Will you stay?"

They turned the lights low and sat on the old bench between the palms. The glasshouse ticked and murmured, warm and dim. Outside, snow fell silently across the garden.

At ten, the bud began to move. The sepals peeled back like fingers. The petals unfolded, slowly, impossibly, in a white, trembling spiral.

Sofia gasped. "Oh."

"Yes."

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Not quite," said Ingrid.

Sofia turned. The flower's pale glow lit Ingrid's face from below, open and unguarded.

"Can I ask you something?" said Sofia.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Ingrid, almost inaudible. "And if you say stop, you must water the cactus."

"There is no cactus."

"I will buy one."

Sofia laughed, and kissed her, softly, one hand cupping her cold cheek. Ingrid's gloved fingers curled in her curls. The kiss was slow and sweet, warm with the scent of vanilla and earth, while the flower opened wide beside them in the dim green dark.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ingrid.

"Green," said Sofia. "Very green."

By dawn, the flower had closed. But in a pot on the bench sat a small new cactus with a ribbon on it, and a note: Leave it alone a little. Love it a lot.

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