"A painter who hates a large potted plant" 8.27.07

I attended a Writers' Salon last night put on by San Diego Writers' Ink. Toward the end of the discussion, we did a writing practice where we wrote down a title and an object and then passed those on to other people. The title I received was "painter" and the object was "a large potted plant." The premise was that the person with the title hated the object. Here's what I came up with:

That god-damned potted plant. It was like an albatross. A green albatross, but still. And she couldn't kill it, that was the sad part. But she tried, oh, she tried. She would "accidentally" forget to water it. But that would only last for a week until the guilt set in. Damn conscience.

Finally one day she decided to paint it. It wasn't like her usual portrait subjects, being that it was potted. But, at least it wouldn't move around a lot, she thought as she set up her easel. That's one thing you can say about houseplants, they aren't fidgety.

As she started mixing her palette of browns and greens, she remembered how she came to acquire the plant. It had belonged to a crazy boyfriend. Truly crazy. She went out with him on a Sunday and by Tuesday he had practically moved in.

He told her about the sad plant that lived in a corner in his kitchen. Feeling pity, and a little bit more than the usual poor boundaries she exhibited in relationships, she agreed to have him bring it over to live on her patio -- lots of sun, lots of space.

When she dumped the guy who owned the plant in her typical two-week relationship window, he asked that -- even though their love wouldn't survive -- she keep the plant to salvage at least one life from this tragic drama.

She agreed, and there it was, ready for its close-up, staring at her now like the sad, pathetic, yet much healthier, thing it was.

She picked up her brush and started painting, a hot and unwanted tear wending its way down her cheek.