I’ve sat in this same exact spot for 7 months, 3 days and 2 hours now. It sucks sometimes. Almost all the time, if I’m being honest. At first, I enjoyed the people-watching. The type of people walking by never failed to interest me. Especially in the winter. Where I’m from, the middle of a mostly forgotten desert, cold is a foreign concept. At least it was. Now I feel a little cold all the time. Not sure if that’s the loneliness talking or just the fact that I’m stuck here under the AC vent.

 

The same CD plays every day. It’s been that way all 7 months, 3 days and 2 hours and 2 minutes I’ve been stuck here. It’s full of depressing songs. Like the one playing now. The words go something like this:

 

Who wants to love somebody like me?

You wanna love somebody like me?

If you could love somebody like me

You must be messed up too

 

That pretty much sums up my existence here up until this point. Unseen. Unloved. Whatever. I don’t care. (That might be a lie.)

 

Today, a little girl walks in. I’m not sure why I call her little, she’s much taller than I am. I suppose she is rather short compared to fully grown people. The angry lady at the counter glares at her as the girl walks in alone. The counter lady mutters to herself in a language I don’t understand, just like she always does. I’m not sure she likes people any at all. I think she likes them even less than not at all when they don’t have any money. Little girls without fully grown people with them don’t have too much money, I think. I can’t be quite sure, since part of my view is blocked by an ugly, arrogant little twig of a potted plant. Thinks it’s all that, I’m sure. Placed smack dab in the middle of the store as if it’s special or something.

 

The little-but-not-littler-than-me girl wanders around the shop, wide eyes taking everything in but never stopping. Never seeing anything she likes. The picky ones never notice me, here in the musty corner, but she does. For the first time, someone actually sees me. Still, I don’t dare to hope.

 

Her little arms reach down and pluck me off of the ground. The cobwebs are reluctant to see me go; they stretch to keep a hold of me. But my rise from the depths is meteoric and they can’t hold on for very long. I feel bad. They are just like me, swept aside and ignored. I feel bad, but not too bad, and not for too long. They itched anyway.

 

The angry counter lady is surprised to see me. I think she’s also surprised when the little girl pulls money from her pocket. I think she’s very surprised because she just takes the money without saying anything and nods. Then she’s scowling again.

 

“Thank you!” says the little girl, a song in her voice. She has such a nice voice. She has to hold on with two hands, so she opens the door with her bum. I hear the counter lady grumble and I hope my girl smudged the glass on her way out.

​

A fully-grown woman waits outside. The little girl beams and holds me up so she can see me better. Then she frowns and pulls me back close, whispering. “What’s your name?” I tell her I don’t have one but there’s one I’ve always liked. She tells me that’s her name, but we can share it. And just like that, I’m thrust back upwards.

​

“This is Rory, Mumma. We have the same name, but it’s OK because this Rory is a cactus and I’m not.”

​

Mumma peers down at me, a little smile on her lips. “It’s very nice to meet you, Rory the Cactus.” I can tell she doesn’t believe my Rory really talked to me. It’s OK though. I’m not sure Mumma would be much fun to talk to anyway.

​

 

It’s not always fun being the last - and only - cactus in the flower shop. But all it means is that you’re the first to go home, even if it is 7 months, 3 days and 2 hours and 6 minutes later.