Twisted tales - страница 2

Since then, their engagement had become a permanent fixture, like the statue in the town square. The wedding, however, was always just around the corner – a corner that eternally receded as Bob’s ingenuity flourished. He was a veritable Houdini of nuptial escapes.

“My sweet Beatrice,” he'd say, his voice dripping with sincerity that could sweeten a lemon, “we must postpone. The stars aren't aligned! Jupiter is in retrograde. It's a cosmic decree against matrimony!” Beatrice, armed with a half-hearted astrology book, would grudgingly concede.

Then came the Great Aunt Mildred Emergency. “She's in dire need of a new hip, my love,” Bob declared, “and I, as her only nephew, am duty-bound to lead the fundraising! A wedding now would be… insensitive.” Beatrice, who had yet to meet this mythical aunt, nodded with a sigh that could rust iron.

The excuses grew more elaborate. A sudden, urgent need to climb Mount Kilimanjaro “for spiritual enlightenment,” a deep-sea diving expedition to find a lost treasure that would “secure their financial future,” even a stint as a mime in Paris to “discover his true artistic self.” Beatrice, meanwhile, discovered a remarkable talent for knitting scarves – a skill honed during the endless evenings she spent waiting.

Years spiraled by like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. Her once vibrant hope had faded to a dull ember, yet Beatrice, with a resilience that would make a willow tree envious, remained. She knew Bob. He was more comfortable courting her than being her partner. But she also knew that she loved Bob.

One sunny afternoon, Bob burst into her parlour, eyes shining brighter than ever. “Beatrice, my love!” he exclaimed, “I have found it! The perfect reason to finally set a date! We must wait for the blooming of the legendary Midnight Orchid of Borneo. It only flowers once a century, and it is a symbol of eternal love!”

Beatrice fixed him with a gaze that could melt glaciers. “Oh, Bob,” she said softly, “You're going all the way to Borneo this time, aren't you? Well, it is good you go. While you are away, I will marry your brother, Ronald. He doesn't have such a vivid imagination!”

And so, Bob, the eternal fiancé, found himself the best man at a wedding he should have been the groom at, and the Midnight Orchid of Borneo bloomed only to be forgotten.

Benjamin, bless his cotton socks and hopelessly romantic heart, had fallen for Rose like a skyscraper tumbling in a slow-motion movie. Rose, the girl next door, was a vision – a symphony of sunshine and smiles, housed in a floral sundress. Benjamin, on the other hand, was more of a muted trombone solo, usually clad in a slightly-too-tight waistcoat and a perpetual state of nervous perspiration.

His love, however, was as loud as a brass band at a picnic. And, being a man of action, or rather, a man of well-intentioned, slightly misguided action, he decided to woo her the old-fashioned way: with roses. Every blessed morning, as dawn painted the sky in hues of apricot and rose (irony, you magnificent beast!), Benjamin would tiptoe from his flat, a freshly cut rose clutched in his trembling hand. He'd then deposit it, with the stealth of a squirrel burying a particularly prized acorn, upon Rose's balcony.

It was a labour of love, a ritual as predictable as the sunrise. He imagined Rose, awakening to the fragrant bloom, a smile gracing her lips, thinking of her secret admirer. He envisioned their grand meeting, a scene orchestrated by fate and fragrant petals. The reality, however, was as different as a banjo is from a Stradivarius.