F23
Rick White
Everyone had always assumed the orchid was fake. A facsimile of life, deliberately placed in an elevated position on a shelf next to the photocopier as a nod to the outside world that so obstinately continued to exist. The orchid had a way of drawing the eye, its delicate white petals visible from any vantage point, floating above the tops of the cubicle screens. Its effect was calming, in the same way that artificial images of sky are projected onto the ceilings of MRI machines, to lull the patients as they’re fed into the magnetic tube.
It was only when its petals started to drop that people began to look at it properly. How could it have been real all along? It looked far too perfect. Had it always been next to the photocopier? There were some who claimed to have seen it elsewhere in the office. Maybe it had moved of its own accord?
There were even those within the office who became strangely preoccupied with the notion that until recently they had seen some other entity interacting with it. Some sort of moving shape which had appeared next to it at regular intervals, tending to it in the manner in which one might install toner into a photocopier, coffee into worker.
And although everyone dismissed these fanciful ideas just as they’d been trained to do, they were actually correct. The indeterminate spectral presence was, in fact, Row F Column 23 on a spreadsheet entitled ‘Sustainability Assessment.’
F23 had nurtured the orchid for over two years, moving it occasionally to a new aspect within the office, trying to give it the optimum amount of natural, indirect sunlight. She’d misted it once or twice a day, placed ice cubes in its pot so as to improve absorption and ensure it was never overwatered. And once a week she’d submerged it for ten to fifteen minutes in distilled water just to give it a little freshen-up.
F23 had been Martin’s PA for almost a decade. A good innings, especially as she was now past retirement age. Her two sons had been telling her to give up the job for years but she couldn’t face the thought of rattling round the house all day on her own. Even though it had been years since her Terry had passed, she still didn’t know what to do with time on her hands, apart from gardening of course. She was well used to going to bed alone at night but liked having a reason to get up in the morning.
‘And besides,’ she’d say, ‘Martin couldn’t cope without me. That man would forget to put his socks on if I didn’t put it in his calendar.’
Martin had agonised over the decision to let F23 go. It pretty much came down to a straight choice of losing her or his company BMW. As dedicated as F23 was, Martin had spent a lot of time and effort in choosing the Five Series. He’d specified the enhanced Bluetooth and wireless charging capability, the Harman Kardon audio system — perfect for blasting Level 42 all the way up the M6. He even had the additional lumbar support in the heated seats. His back had never felt better. The heated steering wheel had been a mistake though. It cost an extra one-fifty and actually, on chilly mornings he much preferred to wear his Dents leather driving gloves. Same ones Bond wore in Spectre. Someone had given them to him as a gift.
He felt bad about losing F23, but in a harsh economic climate, a true leader must be prepared to make sacrifices. And so it was that Martin had agreed to shoulder the burden of scheduling his own meetings, replying to his own emails and even occasionally making his own coffee so that the herd (not herd, what was the word he was looking for? hive? no that wasn’t it either, never mind) might survive. At least until the next sustainability review.
He’d even gone to the trouble of arranging a whip-round for F23. He collected over £43 in total. They ended up just giving it to her in vouchers because no one really knew what she might like as a present.
After she had left, F23 was never spoken of. Most of the workers didn’t even realise she’d been there in the first place. But with each orchid petal that wilted and fell from the stem, they became collectively aware of an absence. By the time they tried to water the orchid it was too late. The petals had all fallen, the roots were dry and grey.
F23 hadn’t stopped to pack her things, she hadn’t even collected her coat. She’d walked out of the doors and felt the sun on her face, and thought that days like this should be spent outside. So, she’d gone to the garden centre and bought new gloves, some seedlings, a trellis and a trowel. Now she sits in candied canopies of early April blossoms, while friendly bees busy themselves back and forth, and birds chatter and squawk and sing. She didn’t stay F23 for long, she quickly became Orchidfan_64 and started chatting to Pruner123 who was actually called Ted. And when they finally decided to meet for coffee and cake, she introduced herself as Rose.
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About Rick White
Rick White is a fiction writer from Manchester, UK whose work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, Best British and Irish Flash Fiction and the Pushcart Prize. Rick’s debut short story collection, ‘Talking to Ghosts at Parties’ was released in 2022, however, due to the unending cruelty of the universe/economic climate, the book is now in need of a new publisher. Rick is currently working on a new collection and novel, both of which he hopes to finish before he expires.
To read more of Rick’s work head to www.ricketywhite.com or follow @ricketywhite on Instagram and X.