Queen of the Night

I am not beautiful and I know it, but tonight I shall shine under desert stars, perfuming the air with irresistible scent and magnificence. Tonight will be my emerging swan moment, the fragile, ephemeral blossoming I’ve been waiting to show him, that he’s so carefully tended.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I can feel it in the air. This night, of all nights, I am finally ready.

The sun sinks down, sliding behind mountains turned purple. Scrubby brush fades to shades of brown, a blend of chestnut and coffee and chocolate, all crossed with the slashes and spikes of cactus green. The sky is blazing clouds of tangerine and crimson across a darkening azure background.

And against it all, there he is. I see him studying the sunset, a faint smile on his face. He pushes back his hat as he brings the camera to his face.

Let the sky have its brief moment. Tonight shall be mine.

He settles into his chair next to me, and we sit together, quietly, as we always do, the scent of desiccated earth surrounding us from the day’s rapidly fading scorching heat.

The sky fades, and the stars emerge. He reaches out a calloused hand to touch me with gentle precision, and I warm at his familiar touch. I would not have been ready without him. I may never have been ready, potential withered on the vine.

I hope he knows what his efforts mean to me, but I cannot tell him. Not yet.

The stars shine cold and distant fire, and he is content. He does not know what is to come.

And this is when I begin to move, slowly, so slowly. This dance’s choreography is out of my control, barely within my grasp to achieve at all. If I dared, if it were possible, my brow would be covered in perspiration. Instead I quiver with tension, each movement precise, an endeavor of love for the voyeur whose name I do not even know.

It takes hours to achieve, rolled petals spread from an enormous, unwieldy pod whether they’ve clenched in a pink furl. The lengthy spikes are only the backstop, demanding space, demanding my rightful place atop the desert hierarchy. They are protective and aggressive, persistent and commanding, as if they know nothing will interfere with my brilliance, still waiting to shine.

Within the protective spines open a softer bud. A thousand bladed pink-white petals, waxy and rippled, radiate against the glowing backstop of stars. The budding promise releases a warm and floral beckoning toward the man as it unfolds, achingly unhurried.

I am pleased to find he has not, cannot, look away from the soft, sweet promise I hold within myself. I exult in his rapt attention, stretching forward a thousand tiny stems and a third, hidden bloom toward the man I cannot touch.

In his place I welcome the night moths that begin to flit around, the bats that chase the moths, the wildlife offering to continue my line, pollinate mates and produce progeny I will never see.

Most people do not see the point in ensuring yet another cactus lives to have their moment of glorious triumph. This man does. I hope he will help the others, as he encouraged me, but tonight I will selfishly claim his eyes for my own exclusive pleasure.

I am not for everyone, and I know it. I am meant for this man, this man’s eyes only.

I am queen of the night, queen of the desert, proof of hidden life and beauty within the arid and barren environment of jagged rock and dust that is rock pulverized by baking sun and wind. For this night only, all this is mine. For this night only, I have this man’s complete and undivided attention.

I shall claim this moment’s full due.

By morning, I shall wither and fall to dust, fall back to earth, a single spiked cactus without a flower, dully inhospitable and ugly against the wasteland of sand and dust. I will no longer even have the potential promise of blooming, nothing to make me special or stand out from the rest of the rest of my surroundings.

So I shall glory in this single nocturnal adventure, revel in his attention, lament only at the last moments when my rare perfume turns spoiled and withers away.

I am only a lone flower, but I can tell the rest of my siblings to welcome this man, whose tears track down grizzled cheeks behind his camera lens, who took the time under the stars to capture my fleeting, desolate reign.

Leigh Kimmel and I traded prompts this week for the Odd Prompts weekly challenge. Mine was to explore a creepy neighbor’s comments about his family, and received in turn the following: “Visitor from tomb—stranger at some publick concourse followed at midnight to graveyard where he descends into the earth.” I may have twisted it beyond recognition...