Titan Arum
by Gabrielle Fernandez
I took a loose hair from your shirt when you weren’t looking. I took it home and planted it in the ground.
I water the little patch of earth where I’ve hidden your essence and think to myself how much you’d hate that I have this. It is my secret; a little piece of you to keep buried in my backyard even when you’ve decided I no longer am interesting or pretty. A secret only for me, until I discover your hair has sprouted.
I stare at the little you, your feet hidden beneath the soil, and I love that now you cannot run from me. You shake your fist and shout harsh words, so I tip my coffee and watch you choke on the torrent of black liquid drowning the ground.
Each morning I greet you, measure how much you’ve grown, and pour my drink on your head. Sometimes I’ll hand you the crumbs from my muffin and we’ll talk about nothing. Sometimes I pretend I’m feeling benevolent, so when I douse you with coffee I can see the shock on your face. “You’re a bitch,” you’ll say, and I shrug and tell you I won’t bring anymore food.
But I always do, until I no longer kneel to see your freckles and instead must tilt my head up to see your face. I don’t like how large you’ve become, or how deep your voice gets, or how you talk about what my neighbors do on the other side of my fence. When I throw my coffee at you it only sprays your chest, and you laugh like I’m a child throwing a tantrum.
I stop coming outside, but still you grow. You grow despite my lack of food, or conversation, or nourishment. Your legs become sinuous; your arms constantly stretching to snatch passing birds.
“How lucky,” passersby say, “to have such a magnificent man planted in your yard,” and I smile and agree that yes, it’s such a wonder. Though the shade from your broad shoulders has grown tiring, and my house shakes when you wiggle your toes beneath the ground. I lay awake most nights, thinking how you deserve a home with a nice girl who will water you and tell you about her day. But then I wake and remember you deserve nothing.
As the weather dips I let you freeze. Your fingers turn blue, and one falls off after a frost. You try to knock on my window but only succeed in smudging the glass. “I bet you’d like hot coffee now,” I mutter. You don’t answer. I don’t think you ever will. When I finally come outside, your body has crumpled into a drooping stalk, arms hanging listlessly beside your once strong legs. I take an axe and hack at the roots until your feet are finally unearthed, then stuff you away into black bags for the garbage man.
I keep one of your hairs to remind me.
And plant it in the ground.