There are empty vases throughout the apartment on tables and shelves, tucked into corners. Like scattered observers, open-mouthed at some spectacle, silently agape.
It's an image I can't seem to shake. Should I get flowers for them? I could give them an outpouring of color, of expression, as if they were all describing the same beautiful ideal.
There's an overgrown lot along the road I take to work, and I've seen orchids there. We're in the tropics, baby. Orchids grow wild here. Walking to the apartment, I could pick some. They'd look lovely.
Although lilies are probably more Ortega's thing. The white lilies from the Annunciation paintings. Uncorrupted and austere, distant. Until they open and stink up the place. So I wouldn't do that to him. I'm sure if I look around, I can gather enough white orchids. That's a good compromise. Wonder what he'll think.