Star-crossed

When I was a little girl and my mom took me to my first concert, I remember wanting to be a singer. I think that's what all little kids do, see something and want to emulate it. But the strange thing is, I didn't stare at the man in the center of the stage; I stared at the backup singers on stage left. Even when I was small, I always knew I'd never be a star. That was a dream too grandiose for me.

When I was a little older, I worked at a movie theatre with the film geeks. I remember wanting to be in pictures. I would sit in the aisles of the darkened theatre and watch the frumpier female sidekick. Maybe I could be her.

Last night I hooked up the Femme Fatale to her leash and took her for her nightly walk. As we descended the stairwell, I spied a discarded dozen of roses and two sprigs of baby's breath: someone's unwanted valentine. I walked the Femme Fatale around the block and thought curiously about the flowers. I tried to imagine why someone would abandon them in the bottom of a stairwell. Was it a co-ed who laughed at her geeky suitor? Did a guy change his mind?

When I returned from the walk, I again faced the roses laying on the ground. The plastic wrap and rubber band used to hold them together were missing. The petals, knowing their fate, had already begun to wilt. I bent down and picked up a single rose, peeled off the broken petal and carried it back to my apartment. I filled a small vase usually reserved for my dark chocolate peanut m&m's and plucked the rose into the water.

I always knew I'd never be a star.