Even trust cost: Sharing doesn’t mean caring. The flowers’ aroma emitted a fresh fragrance — reminding me of Grandma Mildred’s sunlit radiant flower room. Now a grown man, I decorated my living room with fleshly cut flowers. Cleveland’s family owned florist, Orbans flowers on Buckeye Avenue, delivered them — every week — to my house. They were in memory of Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Fred. The flowers were a distant cry from the Muslim oils that coated this woman’s ratchet body. We belonged together like oil and water. Tall and well-endowed, her brown, tiresome, municipal employee, time clock punching eyes scanned the aromatic living room. But, I ignored the signs. Trustfully — I invited her in my world: and, even worse, married her. She knew the difference between sharing and caring. I didn’t. And when the dominoes fell — which she planned and pushed — I was out the picture. Now, she smelled of fresh-cut flowers. And, I smelled of shit. The aroma of Muslim oils was long gone. She took the money ran. She left me broke, busted, and disgusted. That life lesson cost me — everything. She bought into Judge Richard McMonagle’s scheme — CV-06-591302
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 06:10:28 +0000
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