A Place in the Sun by Penny Rogers, a glass of Bitter Lemon

 Reem chose the bench because no one was sitting on it. Out of the sun, still damp from the overnight dew it faced away from the children’s playground. She looked at the roses in her hand; for a spilt second she saw the vibrancy and noise of the flower market in Aleppo. But those days were gone, leaving her with memories and flashbacks, and three red roses past their sell-by date from a British supermarket.  She could only afford the reduced flowers, and if there were more than three stems in the bunch she would give the surplus to passers-by. Some said thank you and took her offering, others looked at her with unease and ignored her. Once a man snatched the stem from her and threw it to the ground, grinding the petals into the pavement.

 

Today just three stems to unwrap. The blooms were in remarkable condition but no scent. She recalled the lingering aroma of the roses in her uncle’s garden, before forcing her malfunctioning safety mechanism to obliterate the devastation she had fled from.  As always she named the flowers: Ali, Rifat and Miran.

 

A vague sound caused Reem to turn. She was no longer alone. At the other end of the bench was a woman dressed in a beige cardigan and grey skirt; her pallid face lined with loneliness. Reem stood up to leave, aware of a faint aroma of damp, decay and peppermint from the new arrival. With a glance and the slightest wave of her hand the woman indicated she should stay. Is she as isolated and sad as I am? Reem wondered as she resumed her seat. No word was spoken; the three roses lay on the bench between them, wilting as the sun moved higher in the sky. 

About the author

Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

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