Midnight Marigolds

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

The words tasted like copper in my mouth. I stood paralyzed over the edge of the wooden compost bin, staring down into the dark. My phone—my dying, cracked, three-years-overdue-for-an-upgrade phone—had just slipped right through my freezing fingers. It landed screen-down with a pathetic, wet smack.

I gripped the raw wood of the bin. Splinters dug into my palms. I didn't care. I just stared at the black rectangle resting perfectly atop a disgusting pile of rotting orange peels, wet brown coffee grounds, and a grey, fuzzy mass that used to be a zucchini.

It was a Tuesday. It was twilight. The air was supposed to feel like spring, but it just felt hostile. The city wind whipped down the narrow alleyway between the brick apartment buildings, rattling the chain-link fence of the community garden. I hated the cold. I hated the smell of wet dirt. Mostly, right now, I hated myself.

I leaned over, debating if I could reach it without getting whatever that slime was on my jacket sleeve.

"Don't touch it."

I flinched. My shoulder hit the side of the wooden bin, and I spun around, my heart immediately hammering against my ribs.

He was standing right behind me.

I knew him. Not his name. Not his life. But I knew him. He was the guy from the bench. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. For the last month, he had been sitting on the warped wooden bench near the garden's entrance, wearing the same faded black denim jacket, staring holes into the dirt.

He stepped forward. He didn't ask for permission. He just reached his arm past my shoulder, plunging his bare hand directly into the slimy, freezing compost. He gripped my phone, pulled it out, and wiped the screen against his jeans in one smooth, practiced motion.

He held it out to me.

"Here," he said.

I didn't take it. I couldn't. I was staring at his hand, then up at his face.

He had dark hair, messy, like he cut it himself. Dark eyes. A sharp, tired jawline. He looked exhausted. He looked exactly like every other twenty-something guy burning out in this city, but looking at him made my stomach drop into my shoes. It wasn't attraction. It was a violent, suffocating wave of recognition.

I knew the exact way his mouth was going to twitch before he spoke. I knew the specific rough texture of the scar on his left thumb. I knew it, and I had absolutely no reason to know it. We had never spoken.

"Take it," he said. His voice was low. It grated against my ears, familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.

I snatched the phone from him. Our fingers didn't touch, but I felt the heat radiating off his skin.

"Thanks," I said. My voice sounded thin. Weak. I hated how small I sounded. I shoved the phone into my coat pocket, the wet grime soaking instantly through the cheap fabric.

I expected him to walk away. To go back to his stupid bench and his stupid brooding. But he didn't. He stood there, completely still, staring at me. The streetlights on the avenue flickered on, casting long, ugly orange shadows across the garden beds.

Every sound suddenly felt too loud. The distant wail of a police siren. The rattle of a plastic trash can lid rolling down the pavement. The wind tearing through the newly planted hyacinths.

"You're out here late," he said.

"It's a public garden," I snapped, immediately defensive.

"I know."

"I drop my compost off on Tuesdays," I said, justifying myself to a stranger for absolutely no reason. "It's on my way home from work."

"Right."

He kept looking at me. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve, and the intensity of it was making my chest tight. I took a step back. The gravel crunched loudly under my boots. I needed to leave. The paranoia was setting in, that heavy, localized dread that told me to get out of the alley, to get back to a well-lit street.

"I'm going now," I said.

I turned away from him. I took two fast steps toward the gate.

Then the smell hit us.

It was sudden. It didn't drift in on the wind. It dropped over the garden like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

Sweet pipe tobacco. Cherry and ash.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My lungs seized. The smell was so strong it coated the back of my throat. It tasted like old paper and burning wood. It tasted like a specific night, in a specific room, decades ago.

The cold spring wind stopped completely.

I turned my head slowly, looking back at him. He was frozen, too. His eyes were wide, staring at the empty space between the raised garden beds.

"Do you..." I started, but the words choked off.

The visual static started. It wasn't a fade. It was a violent, aggressive glitch in my vision. The green leaves of the tomato stakes blurred, turning into heavy, dark velvet curtains. The bright yellow daffodils morphed, twisting into polished brass lamps sitting on small circular tables.

The sounds shifted. The city traffic vanished. Completely gone. Replaced by a low, rhythmic thumping. An upright bass. The chaotic, fast-paced plucking of a piano. The clinking of heavy glass. Ice rattling. Hundreds of voices talking at once, a low, dense hum of a crowded room.

I clamped my hands over my ears. It didn't stop the sound. The sound was inside my head.

I looked at the ground. The gravel was gone. It was black and white hexagonal floor tiles.

I looked at him.

He wasn't wearing the faded denim jacket anymore. My brain stuttered, trying to process it. He was wearing a dark, heavy wool suit. His hair was slicked back. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, looking directly at me across a crowded, smoke-filled room.

He smiled at me. A devastating, knowing smile.

"Stop," I whispered.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the pain cut through the noise.

When I opened my eyes, the gravel was back. The daffodils were just flowers. The velvet curtains were just dead tomato vines.

The wind rushed back in, hitting my face like a physical slap.

I was hyperventilating. I stumbled backward, my back hitting the chain-link fence. I looked at him. He was standing exactly where he had been, in his faded jacket, but his face was drained of all color. He looked sick.

"Did you..." I gasped, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Did you see that?"

He took a massive step backward. He looked terrified.

"I have to go," he said. His voice cracked. The cool, brooding guy routine was completely shattered.

"No, wait," I said, pushing off the fence. "What was that? What the hell was that?"

"Nothing," he said fast. He turned around, walking aggressively toward his bench. He snatched up his canvas backpack. "I didn't see anything. I'm leaving."

"You're lying!" I yelled. The volume of my own voice surprised me. I ran after him, my boots kicking up the gravel. I caught up to him right by the edge of the large marigold bed. The bright yellow and orange flowers looked aggressive under the harsh streetlights.

"Leave me alone," he said, throwing his bag over his shoulder.

"This is creepy as hell!" I yelled right back. "You sit here every single week! You just stare at me! And then whatever the fuck that was just happened! Did you drug me? Is there a gas leak? What is going on?"

He stopped. He turned to face me, his jaw clenched tight.

"I didn't drug you," he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "I don't even know you. I come here because it's quiet. And it's none of your business."

"You come here because of me," I said. I didn't know why I said it. The words bypassed my brain entirely. But as soon as they hung in the cold air, I knew they were true.

He flinched. A tiny, micro-expression of absolute panic.

"You're crazy," he said. He started to turn away again.

"Why are you always at this bench?" I demanded, stepping directly into his path. I was standing inches from him now. The smell of the sweet cherry tobacco was still clinging to his jacket. It wasn't the garden. It was him.

"Move," he said.

"Tell me why you know me," I pushed. My chest was heaving. I felt like I was losing my mind, but I couldn't stop. "Tell me why I know exactly what your laugh sounds like when we've never spoken. Tell me why I know you hate the smell of gin."

He stared at me. His breathing was as ragged as mine.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied. It was a bad lie. His eyes were darting all over my face, taking in every detail.

I reached out. I don't know what I was trying to do. Grab his jacket? Push him?

He reached out at the exact same time, maybe to block me, maybe to push me away.

Our hands collided over the marigold bed.

Skin on skin.

It wasn't a spark. It was a detonation.

The world vanished.

I didn't hear a sound. I didn't see a hallucination. I became the memory.

The impact was entirely physical. I felt the heavy weight of a sequined dress dragging against my shins. I felt the sweat dripping down my neck. I felt his hand, his massive, warm hand, gripping mine so hard the bones shifted.

We were running.

My chest burned. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and breaking glass. Shouts echoed off wet brick walls. A police whistle shrieked, so loud it rattled my teeth.

"Don't look back!" he was screaming. His voice was different. Older. Wilder.

I looked back anyway.

I saw the wooden doors of the club splintering open. I saw men in uniforms. I saw the flash of a gun muzzle.

Then I was slammed against a brick wall. His body pressed against mine, hiding me in the shadows of the alley. He was breathing heavily, his forehead resting against mine. The smell of cherry tobacco and rain was overwhelming.

"I've got you," he whispered in the dark. "I've got you, I'm not letting them take you."

I tasted blood in my mouth. I felt the absolute, crushing weight of loving him. It wasn't a crush. It wasn't a date. It was a desperate, violent devotion that made my current life feel like a cheap plastic imitation.

"Promise me," I heard my own voice say. A voice that sounded richer, older.

"I promise," he said, his lips brushing against my temple. "Next time. I'll find you next time."

The memory collapsed.

I gasped, sucking in the freezing April air. My eyes snapped open.

We were back in the community garden. The sirens on the avenue wailed. The wind rattled the chain-link fence.

I was still holding his hand over the bright yellow marigolds.

He was staring at me, his chest rising and falling in massive, jagged breaths. The denial was completely gone from his face. The walls had completely crumbled. He looked completely wrecked.

He slowly let go of my hand, but he didn't step back.

"You remember," he whispered, his voice cracking entirely.

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking violently. My cracked phone was still heavy in my wet pocket. My 2026 life—my shitty apartment, my burnout job, my lonely Tuesdays—suddenly felt like a costume I had been forced to wear.

I looked back up at him. The stranger who wasn't a stranger at all.

"Yeah," I breathed, the word scratching against my dry throat.

I squeezed his hand, the streetlights flickering out as the jazz band in my head finally started to play.