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When Cor decided to start a garden, Monica assumed it would be a few patches of veggies that would inventively die. It wasn’t that she thought the man was incompetent, only that he was shit at taking care of himself and she wouldn’t trust that man with a houseplant. The Marshal spent most of his time in the half-finished citadel, often sleeping in his office. Monica had seen his apartment, a small studio with a shikibuton that he never folded up, a microwave and mini-fridge that was stocked primarily with beer and microwave meals. How he kept up his body on that diet was proof of immortality.
So when she next visited the Marshal, she was stunned. The small patch of dirt allotted to his apartment unit, curtsy of having a bottom unit in what was shaping up to be a decent newly develop housing section, was thriving with flowers. All white, all healthy and strong. It was strange to match the garden with the man. Everything Cor owned had a purpose and practice, something that can be utilized. Flowers, as far as Monica was aware, had no use but to look pretty.
It only took two beers (sitting on the floor, because it was ‘just as good as a chair, Monica,’) for her to ask, “Why flowers, sir?”
“I hear bouquet are for men, these days,” The immortal crushed his finished can and pulled out another from the mini fridge (conveniently at arms length from their seating)
Monica laughed, perhaps hysterically, “Getting into gender politics, sir? Making a statement?”
“I’m learning to enjoy things for their existence,” Monica doubted it was something he’d say if he wasn’t a little tipsy, “Nothing grew, for so long. Only the nights to nurture so few crops. All these flowers are from seeds and bulbs that someone thought to save, so that if light ever shone on the soil again, they might have a chance to sink their roots and exist,”.
“Feeling poetic, Marshal?” Monica finished the last of her beer, and contemplated a third, “I don't mean to mock, but you understand, it’s unexpected,”.
Cor stood up and Monica was certain she had crossed the boundaries and that the man would end the night early, he walked – or marched, the man always moved like he was on a mission, towards the back door and into the garden, picked a flower and marched back in, sat down and handed the thing to her.
“For me? You shouldn’t have,” She tried to laugh, it wasn’t every day that a man gave her flowers (Or in this case, a flower), especially not her boss. But she knew, there was no romantic intent in the now plucked flower, destined to will and die – even if she remembered to put it in a vase with water.
Cor nodded, “It’s a snapdragon, it symbolizes grace and strength,”.
Monica brought the flower to face and inhaled the floral smell, “Thank you, sir,”.
And that’s all they had said, till the sun reached the soil once more.