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The sky was mucky and grim, the blue clouds covering the darkening sky. The occasional raindrops would drop down, plopping softly on the lifeless sidewalk. The buildings in the city were huge, it was part of the reason Cleopatra never traveled this far into town. Apartments, offices, and just random domes of bricks and metal were packed together to form the illusion that the city was busy and always awake. In any instance, Cleopatra would’ve stayed in the suburban side of Exclamation, USA, but this was something she had to do. She had to see Her. As the clouds above darkened, the cold air nipped at her exposed shoulders. Her car was in no condition to be driven, so she had to walk the 1.5 miles into the rundown, pitiful attempt at a put together city.
Her boots were killing her feet, and the long dress that was dappled with flowers she wore was a sheer source of warmth. In the suburbs, fall was beautiful, but in the city everything just looked and felt depressing. There were no other people in sight, just Cleopatra and her unsober thoughts. And the flowers. How could she forget she was carrying them? Perhaps it was because her hands had fallen numb from the cold, or she just chose to ignore them…it was a fitting gift, she couldn’t lie. She loved flowers, the last time Cleopatra was over, Her room was littered with them. Wilted, fake, fresh, any type of flower she picked or crafted was pinned or hung around the room. Why’d she have to live so far away? Their school was in the suburbs, 30 minutes away (via driving, at least), and maybe an additional 30 since she skated. Everywhere. That was one of the things Cleo did and still does love about Frida Kahlo, no matter how far the distance, she would be dead set on skating there.
The further she limped and dragged her feet, the sicker she felt. It’s been a month since the break up, and they hadn’t spoken since. The more she thought about it, Cleo hadn’t seen Frida around school at all. Had she just—stopped going? Did she drop out? Did she—? Cleopatra didn’t want to think of what could’ve happened to her former lover, she didn’t even think dropping these flowers off was a good idea, but for the past couple of nights, she’d been losing sleep. She had to see Frida, she had to drop these nearly wilted flowers off, she had to say Sorry.
Shortly, the apartment building Kahlo was rotting in shot into view. It was the run of the mill shitty, tall building with a gazillion and one windows. Frida lived on the 5th floor, apartment number 506. She picked up her pace and soon enough reached the front doors of the building. A bundle of memories slapped her across the face as she stepped inside, wiping her boots on the faded Welcome mat. The dingy yellow lights above her buzzed, shooting liminality and discomfort through her nerves. Was it colder in here than it was out there? As Cleopatra made her way to the jumbled, carpeted staircase, guilt and regret pricked her mind.
Each heavy step, each sniffle as the cold air nipped her nose, each glance at the rotting bouquet of flowers in her hand, everything was a reminder of how badly she fucked up. Why did they split again? Something about Cleopatra’s “drinking problem”? She couldn’t help it, her Clone Mother loved to be intoxicated, it’s genetics! But Frida wasn’t fond of Cleo’s lack of sobriety, which led to a massive argument, then finally the break up. Before she had stormed out of Kahlo’s apartment a month ago, Cleopatra had cursed and swore the poor girl out before slamming the door. The last words she ever spoke to Frida was a text that read “I’m Sorry.”
The hallway was long and narrow, doors on each side and one small window at the very end of the hall. The irony of Cleopatra being slightly tipsy while visiting her ex was hilarious, she could’ve laughed at how stupid she was for drowning herself in alcohol before making the hike over. As she stumbled from wall to wall, the carpet under her scuffed as she dragged her boots across, one hand using the hall walls as a source of stability, and the other clutching the flowers.
506, there it was. Well, it was technically “56” now, the 0 had fallen off two weeks before their break up. Trying her best to fix her posture, Cleopatra sounded three heavy knocks on the door. Before her mind could process it, the girl she used to be head over heels for was standing in the doorway, confusion and frustration written all over her heartbroken face.
“Cle-cle..? Why—what’re you—?” She couldn’t find her words. Unlike Cleopatra’s messy black hair and smudged makeup, Frida was put together—her hair in two braids, those two pretty flowers she loved so much tangled in her hair. Cleopatra handed the smaller girl the bouquet and smiled.
“I brought you these.”
Frida’s jaw was hung slightly as she stepped out of the way, allowing Cleo entrance to her small apartment. Keep your head held high, crying will do you no good. “Where’s your mother?”
“Uh, s-she’s at work—why are you here, Cleo? And why did you bring me these? And why—”
“Frida, I came to apologize.” She dragged herself over to Kahlo’s couch and cautiously sat down. “ I’m Sorry. ”
“Sorry?” Frida mimicked, her hands holding the bouquet tighter. “This could’ve been a text, why’d you drive all the way over here to tell me you’re Sorry?”
“I walked.”
“Not my point, Cleo.”
Cleopatra sighed. “I wanted to see those eyes, to see you. I couldn’t bear to apologize over the phone again, I needed to be here in person.”
Frida stood away from the couch, her eyes fixated on the flowers rather than the mess of a woman on her couch. They seemed glossed over with tears, though none ever fell. Her hands caressed the wilting petals, and to Cleo’s drunken eye, they seemed to brighten up as Kahlo’s fingers brushed over them softly. “These are beautiful.” Frida dodged Cleo’s comment.
“I knew you’d like them.” She smiled softly. “I never see you at school anymore.”
“..yeah..I haven’t really been going…stuff’s rough ‘round here, y’know?”
“I could ease your nerves, you always loved when I did that.” She beckoned Frida to join her on the couch, but instead of sitting down beside her, Kahlo instead kneeled beside her and rested her head atop her legs. Cleo’s hands smoothed Frida’s ruffled hair, slow and gentle strokes.
“Did you really come to apologize?” The tears finally fell.
“Yes, I’m Sorry…I’ve changed, my love, I swear to the Gods up above.”
Has she really and truly changed?
…
…
She’s too foolish to figure out a lie.
Frida looked down at the flowers, then sighed. “I’ve missed you, Cle-cle…I’m…Sorry too.”
Cleo brought her head down so she could better view Kahlo’s tear streaked face. She tilted the heartbroken girl’s face up and pressed her lips against hers. The familiar warmth and loving feeling shot through her, she felt like she had it all again. She said she was Sorry. A genuine apology, she knew Frida couldn’t be angry for long. As the rain pummeled outside, the kissing grew more intense, Frida now in Cleo’s lap and her fingers intertwined in her tangled black hair. Moans and hushed whimpers broke out, but nearly as soon as they did, Frida pulled away.
“Your lips taste like vodka…”
…
“You’re drunk, huh?”
Frida was off her lap in an instant, tears falling once more and anger flushing her cheeks. Cleopatra tried to defend herself, saying how it was one drink (that was a lie) and she wasn’t even that tipsy (another lie), but Kahlo wasn’t born last night. The room, which was once full of love and assurance, was now mingled with hatred.
“ Out. Get the FUCK OUT! ” Her words were hoarse with betrayal and rage. “You lied to me! You haven’t changed, not in the slightest!” The bouquet of once again wilted flowers were thrown at Cleopatra’s chest. “ And take these with you! ”
The intoxicated girl was rushed to the door and practically thrown out, the door slamming behind her. Instead of pounding on the door, begging to be let in like a dog that was kicked out, she instead followed her steps back out. Down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the door.
The wind blew harder outside, the cold air kicking and slapping her around. Every window she could see was shut, and the buildings that were usually lit with a yellow tint were dark and lifeless. The city that was usually always lifeless, was now dead . Instead of dragging her feet, she stomped down the sidewalk, her mascara filled tears running down her cheeks. Once so smudged, was now just ruined. Her dress was slipping off her upper body, exposing hints of her bra.
And these damn flowers. Something she thought could show Frida how Sorry she really was. They’re mocking her, they’re laughing at her. With a heavy wail, she chucked them at a malnourished tree and stormed off, leaving them to wilt until they were finally dead. After all, there was no point in carrying them back home, they meant nothing to her anymore.
Nothing meant anything to anyone anymore.
Especially not Frida.
Only her apology.
I’m Sorry.