The window seal held five miniature cacti plants.
The cactus is native to the desserts where it rains sparingly, so she figured even she could handle such a low maintenance plant, right?
Wrong.
As the days grew longer and the clocks changed times; summer had faded away, leaving only embarrassing tan lines and the cacti as its remnant.
Months went by and she forgot to water them, treating them as more prop than living organisms.
Eventually, each died off one at a time; the life drained from the inside to the out.
Soon enough the objects and people around it were more dangerous to it then it had been to them, no longer predator but prey.
Whoever heard of the person pricking the cactus?
Or the fish eating the shark? The thing that was so captivating about them in the first place was what they symbolized.
A cactus is like a relationship. There are all different types—big, small; passive, assertive.
Most people don't know this but every cactus can be touched without getting pricked.
It takes time, patience, and observing. Observe how it reacts when you stroke it a certain way.
When the spines are thick and when they are thin.
How she reacts when you tell a lie, how his temper wavers when he loses his patience. The look of disgust in their eyes when you do "that thing" they hate.
After enough time has been spent you learn where their soft spots are, where a finger can glide gently enough not to be pricked.
You learn not to bring up her dad, or the way he uncomfortably shifts at the mention of kids. Relationships are like cacti, so she named hers
"Chaos."
