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Poppy

by Libby Welch


“Have you heard from Mom since the funeral?” Dahlia asked. 


“I haven’t.” 


“I’ve tried calling her, but she never picks up. I wonder if she even listens to my  voicemails,” she continued. 


“Maybe she just needs… Time.” I could feel tears forming in my eyes, but for only a  moment as I swallowed the grief. The fresh pain of loss lingered over my shoulders. “Frankly, I think she’s losing it,” Dahlia said, crossing her arms. “Ever since Dad died,  she’s stopped going out and she never calls me back.” 


“She’s still grieving. We all are” 


Dahlia didn’t respond. 


There was a ring of a bell as we pushed open the door to a small, brick interior. Warm  lights hung from the ceiling and artwork flooded the walls. The bitter smell of coffee flooded my  nostrils.  

A new barista took our order. He spoke quietly, stumbled over a few words, and it  seemed like he was avoiding eye contact.  


“What are the, um, names?” He asked in a low voice. 


“Dahlia and Penny–” 


“–Penelope,” I corrected. I only let Dahlia call me that nickname. Dad too, when he was  alive. Dahlia tapped her foot impatiently until our names were called.

She poured a packet of sugar into her coffee, while I carefully balanced a hot mug in my  hands to bring to the table by the window. We sat at the same table every Sunday morning, with  the sun spilling over the tall buildings outside and casting an orange glow over the room. We  talked about how our week went, and how work was going. It seemed like small talk compared  to our normal conversations. I knew she was just waiting for the chance to talk about Dad again,  and I was dreading every moment. I wasn’t sure how she was able to talk about it so casually.  


“So, I wanted to ask,” Dahlia said. “Have you been okay? Since, everything… You know,  if you ever need anything, and I mean anything at all, you can always call me.” “I know that…” 


Tears, yet again welled in my eyes. Dahlia gave me a blank look, then handed me a  napkin. 


“Look Penny, I know neither of us want to say it, but Dad could be a real prick  sometimes. Remember how he always yelled at Mom? And how controlling he was to her? At  least now she has some freedom,” she said. 


I gripped the mug in my hand tightly, feeling a slight burn. 


She looked like she was about to speak more, but stopped herself. I noticed she was  glancing behind me, then she leaned over the table to get closer. 


“Remember the guy who took our order?” She whispered. “He’s been staring at us this  whole time.” 


“Hm?” I questioned, then glanced back to see him quickly turn away. 


“That's weird as hell,” she spat quietly.  


“I guess. Maybe he’s just awkward?” 


“It’s more like creepy.” 

Dahlia was glaring at him now. She was harsh–much harsher than me. She had always  been protective of me growing up too, as the older sister. In high school, she would be skeptical  of any guy who came near me–not that anyone was particularly interested.  “We should leave,” she said. 


We stood up and turned toward the door. But before we could, we heard a voice behind  us. We turned around to see him standing there, fidgeting with a piece of paper in his hand. His  shaggy hair fell under his black visor. His face was soft, with hazel eyes. 


“Penelope?” He said. “It’s Penelope right?” 


“Can I help you?” Dahlia asked firmly. 


“It’s okay,” I tried to ignore her hostility. “And yes, that is my name.” 


“I, um, thought you were… Your hair is very pretty,” he said, then handed me the small  slip of paper that was neatly folded in half. “It’s my number. Sorry, I'm not very good with this  kind of thing.” 


“Oh,” was all I could muster. I stood there, completely still, with a red face. I was only  able to stare up into his eyes–his soft eyes–staring intensely into mine. He towered above me. “My name, is uh, Henry. I’ll see you around maybe?”  


“Yeah… Maybe,” I smiled, faintly.  


Dahlia scoffed and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door. I turned back and could  tell he was watching us as she dragged me outside. It smelled like gas and cigarette smoke now.  People crowded the streets and cars raced past us. I could hear honking in the distance. “What was his problem?” Dahlia asked, crossing her arms. 


“I think he was sweet. He said my hair was pretty.”

“Yea, that's why it was weird. That guy doesn’t even know you. And remember the  staring?” 


“I think he was just,” I paused. “Nervous.” 

She frowned. 


“I’m like that too, you know? He seemed sweet. And… No one’s ever given me their  number before,” I said quietly. 


“Yeah, cause if they tried, I’d scare em’ off.” 


“We’re not teenagers anymore. I have my own apartment now. Maybe this could be…  good for me.” 


“Right now? After Dad just died?”  


I winced at the mention of Dad. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I kept my mouth shut  tightly. As we walked back to her car, I unfolded the paper and traced my finger over his number.  

We started texting soon after. He asked me if I wanted to get dinner with him at a small  Italian place. My hands were shaking as I typed out “yes.” Fear plagued my mind–I didn’t know  this person at all. But, for a reason I couldn’t understand, he had some kind of interest in me.  That’s never happened to me before. 


He was quiet at first, when we got to dinner. We greeted each other with an awkward  “hello” and sat

down quietly at the table. His head hung low and his voice was barely above a  whisper.  


“This is my, um, first date,” he finally said. “Ever.” 


“This is mine too. I’m not really used to anything like this.” 


“Neither am I,” he chuckled.

My tense shoulders relaxed.  


“Your dress is beautiful,” he said, looking down at my beige dress, dotted with bright red  flowers. “They look like Poppies” 


“Oh, thanks. I borrowed it from my sister. I guess I wasn’t really prepared to go on a date  anytime soon.” 

He smiled, staring straight into my eyes. He was unlike any man I had ever known–much  softer and more observant. It was difficult at first, to keep the conversation going. But, it got  better. He told me about how he just started working at the coffee shop and about his love for  photography. I told him how my sister and I went there every weekend, how I had just moved  into a new apartment, and how I just started working somewhere new as well: a small  convenience store down the street.  


 By the time we finished eating and the waiter placed the check on the table, I felt like I  was beginning

to know him. 


“Do you have a nickname?” He asked, right after we finished our food. 


“Oh, not really. Well, I guess my sister calls me Penny, but only her, and… she's the only  one who calls me that.” 


“What about Poppy? Could I call you that? 


“Oh? I–okay. I've never had any other nickname than Penny,” I said, unable to hide the  excitement in my voice. I wasn’t even sure why I was so excited. “Did you get that from my  dress?” 


“Yes, I love poppies! I’ve taken photos of them before. They're very pretty.” “I like it. It's sweet!” 

I laughed.

He pulled a small Polaroid camera out from his pocket. I hadn’t realized he had it with  him.  


“Can I take a photo?” He asked. “I want to remember this night.” 


“A photo?” I was confused for a moment. I didn’t expect it, but I was also flattered in a  strange way. He wanted a photo of me.  


“You can say no,” he said, though I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “I  shouldn’t have said anything.” 


“Oh, no! It’s okay, you can take a photo.”  


He held the camera up to his face, which looked smaller when placed in his large hands.  Click. 


“You’re going on a second date?” Dahlia asked over the phone. “With the guy who  watched us. Remember that?” 


“Yes… I remember. But I think he's just awkward. He seemed to open up a bit with me.” “You barely know this guy!” 


“I want to get to know him.” 


Dahlia sighed. My face turned red with shame. I didn’t think there was anything wrong.  He was a sweet guy and he seemed to really like me.  


“Have you talked to Mom?” I asked after a moment of silence. I wanted to change the  subject.  


“Well,” she began. “She left me a voicemail the other day. Apologized for all the calls  she's missed. She said she hasn’t been leaving the house much or talking to anyone. I can tell…  She misses him. Dad, of course. I don’t think she knows what to do without him.”

“I miss him too.” 


“I…” 


There was silence. For the next minute, neither of us spoke. 


“Still there?” I finally spoke. 


“Penny, how would you describe Dad growing up? What was he like?” 


“He was… loud. And he wasn’t around all the time. But he would show up when it really  mattered, like that time I threw a birthday party for my sweet sixteen. No one from high school  came, but he showed up. I thought he’d still be away on one of his work trips, but he surprised  me by coming home early.” 


“He showed up drunk,” she stated flatly. “And it’s not like he ever showed up to any of  my birthdays.” 

I bit my tongue. 


“What about when we were kids?” She continued. “When I would bring you into my  room and we would hide under the blanket? We would sometimes watch TV, as loudly as we  could. I didn’t want you to hear Mom and Dad. They would always be yelling at each other.” “Are you trying to say you don’t miss him?” 


“What? I… of course I… I just–” 


My phone buzzed. It was a text from Henry. 


“Penny?” She asked. 


“Sorry, I have to go. Henry’s here.” 


“Oh, he is? Well, bye then. You should really try calling Mom sometime. Maybe she  would talk to–” 

I hung up.


 

Libby is currently an undergraduate student studying Graphic and Animation design, with a minor in Creative Writing. This interest in both art and storytelling is a strong motivator in her work. Libby is also interested in exploring human nature and relationships, delving into the complexities of humanity and emotions. As a beginning writer, she has not had any work published yet.

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