"Atkins, can you spare one of those peach-colored roses for me today?"
I looked up at Mrs. Deershorn sticking her head out the window above me. The sweet old lady was about 65 and lived in the floor above me in this small apartment complex. I had moved in about 4 months earlier after a bad breakup with my longtime girlfriend. One of the reasons I took this room was the availability of a garden out my back patio. I had always loved gardening and in my mixed-up emotional state it was great solace.
Because of good rain and bright sunshine this season, I had enjoyed some luck with the roses I planted. Mrs. Deershorn had only a window box at her upstairs apartment and was thrilled to learn a gardener had moved in downstairs. Whenever I thought of it, I would drop off a few cut roses and we would talk about flowers and gardens and her grandchildren.
Despite the time I spent with her -- usually only a half hour or so at a time -- I really knew little about her. I knew she had two grandchildren who would visit occasionally. She used to be married, but hadn't been for some time, divorce, death, I didn't know. But she wasn't married now. Her two-bedroom apartment was modestly furnished but everything was neat and clean. She did some sewing in the second bedroom, mostly clothes for her grandchildren. And then there were her flowers.
She had window boxes off three windows where she grew Impatiens, begonias, geraniums and pansies in season. But she couldn't grow roses and she loved them. It really made her happy when I would bring her some of mine. They would get a prize spot on her dining room table and I would refresh it with another batch every week or so.
"Flower delivery man," I said as she opened her door and I handed over a spray of three peach-colored roses and one white one.
"They're lovely," she said, which is pretty much what she always said even if the flowers had passed their prime. Sometimes when I picked the roses, I would think of women. That's not too unusual when you realize I hadn't had sex in more than four months and, frankly these days, pretty much stayed away from women all together except for Mrs. Deershorn. Too much hurt, I guess.
Lately, my flowers began to take on a new meaning. The rose buds reminded me of young girls just reaching their sexual peak. The just-opened buds were 20 or 21-year olds. The full flowers were the women in the 30s and 40, the peak of their sexuality. And the big, profuse flowers, fully open and highly scented, well, they reminded me of Mrs. Deershorn.
Mrs. Deershorn was something of a full-flowered woman herself. She was about 5-3 with a big chest and bigger hips but a surprisingly thin waist, given her bulk. From a clothing standpoint, well, she was no fashion plate. She wore simple shifts usually and occasionally wore a blouse and skirt if she was leaving the house to go shopping. She had thick legs and arms but always had about her a delicious scent. And that's why I always thought of her as my full-blown rose.
I wouldn't read too much into that. I mean, I didn't see our relationship as anything sexual and, in fact, didn't think of her as a sexual being at all. But in recent weeks, I had a sense it was time to come out of my self-imposed sexual bunker. After all, I was only 30 and keeping company with roses wasn't my idea of a meaningful relationship.
"They'll go right here," Mrs. Deershorn said as she carefully cut the roses under water and put them in their regular spot on the dining room table. This is something she always said also. Next she would say, 'how are things with you?'
"So how are things with you?" she asked. Bless her heart, Mrs. Deershorn may have been a sweet old lady but she was no conversationalist. Once we talked about how the hot weather had burned her begonias, the conversations drifted. Today, though, something seemed a little different.
For one thing, she was wearing a thin cotton robe instead of the heavier shift she normally wore around the house. Other times I visited her, I could tell she wore a heavy, sensible bra under her clothes to rein in those massive breasts. Today, however, she was wearing nothing under the robe and the effect on me was a little startling. There was a generous vista of cleavage visible and I found myself following the shape of those huge, pendulous breasts beneath the thin cotton fabric. She was saying something, but my mind was elsewhere.
"Let me just move it before it falls out of the vase," she was saying and she leaned over me to catch one of the errant roses on the table behind me before it tumbled out of its container. In doing so, she brushed my cheek with her breast and I couldn't help but look down the robe at the generous exposure of tit, topped by a wide aureole and nipple that, to my surprise, seemed hard as it brushed by me. I found myself momentarily aroused but then ashamed at being sexually titillated by this old lady's body. I was even ready to get up to leave when something else struck me and set my heart racing.
It was the scent of, what was it, jasmine? Lavender? It emanated from Mrs. Deershorn like the sweet, intoxicating smell of a flower in sunshine. My heart was pounding and I made a quick decision to take advantage of the situation. I reached up with my two arms as though I was startled and afraid she would fall. What I was really doing was grabbing those full-blown, overripe breasts hanging above me like fruit ready for picking.
