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They were the kind of person who didn't want to be given bouquets. I knew this because I heard them complain about it to a friend, one of those loudmouthed barricade boys:
"You know,"--and here they used the man's name, which I can't produce on account of I forgot it. Might have started with a C--"it really is awful to see those flowers waste their lives like that," they had said upon the occasion of spotting tulips in a vase seen through some window.
I also knew it because of that yellow rosebush.
I picked it out at a pretty florist's shop and made sure its pot was large and sturdy. It hadn't bloomed yet, but the florist assured me that the flowers would turn out sunshine yellow, and I didn't have much to do other than believe him.
I turned up at their door with it, and as soon as they laid eyes upon it, that freckled face lit up. "It's perfect," they said (or maybe "it's great" or "it's lovely." Their praise blurs together now). They wasted no time in snatching the pot from my arms, wandering around their apartment looking for the best place to put it while I stood awkwardly in the doorway. I think they might have forgotten I was there as soon as the plant entered their mind, so I left after a little bit. Later, I would see the rosebush poking out from a bookshelf next to some Greek poetry, the name of which I can't recall. And it did bloom yellow, after all.
Whenever I was there, I noticed it. Not like I saw it much, turning up at their apartment's door with some small gift or an invitation out. I'd like to think they put it to smile within easy sight of the door for my sake, so I could know they liked it, but you don't need to tell me it's wishful thinking to the highest degree.
They must have watered it diligently with how brightly it bloomed. It was a little ray of sunshine in a room that was surprisingly dismal.
It was even more dismal that June. I stopped by the flat just before their lease ran out to salvage. Distracted by sounds of verse cut in half by gunshots and green eyes short a sparkle, there wasn't much I felt the need to take. I had no use for gaudy waistcoats, revolutionary treatises, or poetry in languages I never learned and never will. Everything seemed even greyer and dustier than it had while they still lived there. Except, of course, for a little piece of sunshine poking out from in between books.
Once I was certain my housing arrangements were stable (thanks, Gav), I made sure that that flowerpot got a place of honour where the sun hits it. It really brightens up the room in a way nothing really has since that June. I find that when I miss them, I glance over to that yellow rosebush, and that makes me miss them just a little less painfully, and doesn't that make it better than a bouquet?