My Husband Bought Me Flowers To Celebrate My Promotion. A Homeless Woman Just Warned Me That Smelling Them Will Kill Me. Should I Trust My Husband Of Five Years Or A Stranger?

“Michael, please back up,” she asked, trying to keep her voice even. “The smell is too strong. I’m… I’m having trouble breathing.”

He stopped. The smile didn’t leave his face, but something in his eyes changed. Tension, displeasure. He looked at her as if she had done something wrong.

“It’s a gift,” he said slowly. “I went to the trouble, I picked them out. I wanted to make you happy and you can’t even smell them.”

“I will,” Eleanor said quickly, feeling her heart pound. “Just give me a second. I’ll put them in water and…”

“No,” Michael interrupted. “Smell them now.”

His tone changed. It became harder, more demanding. Eleanor looked into his eyes and for the first time in 5 years of marriage, she didn’t recognize the person in front of her. He was still smiling, but it was a stranger’s smile.

He was still holding the bouquet, but his hands were tense. Cassie’s words echoed in her head like a tolling bell. He’ll ask you to smell them. He’ll say it’s a gift. If you breathe it in, you won’t survive.

It’s not a delusion. Coincidence? Just a strange, absurd coincidence?

“Michael, I really don’t feel well from the smell,” Eleanor forced a smile. “You know I have asthma. Strong scents trigger an attack. Let me just open a window, air the place out, then we can…”

“Are you kidding me?” Michael’s voice grew louder. “I brought you flowers. I spent money, time. I wanted to do something nice and you refused to even smell them.”

He wasn’t yelling, but there was something in his words that sent a chill down her spine. It wasn’t hurt; it was the irritation of someone whose plan was going awry.

“I’m not refusing,” she said quietly, trying to stay calm. “Just let me put them on the balcony. It’s cooler out there, they’ll last longer and the smell won’t be so strong in the apartment.”

She reached out her hands to take the bouquet. For a moment, Michael gripped it tighter as if he didn’t want to let go. Then he abruptly opened his fingers.

Eleanor took the flowers, trying to hold them as far from her face as possible, and hurried to the kitchen. Michael followed her. She could hear his heavy, slow steps.

He hadn’t taken off his boots. He always took his shoes off immediately at the door, it was his rule. But today he had walked right into the apartment in his jacket and boots, following her.

Eleanor threw open the balcony door, carried the bouquet outside, and set it on the small table in a plastic bucket. The cool evening air hit her face, bringing relief. She took several deep breaths, feeling her lungs expand, the oxygen returning to her blood.

“There,” she said, turning back to Michael. “Now they’re in the fresh air. They’re beautiful flowers. Thank you.”

Michael stood in the doorway to the balcony watching her silently. His face was a mask. He wasn’t smiling anymore; he just watched her, studied her, as if trying to understand what went wrong.

“Are you sure you smelled them?” he asked finally.

The question sounded so mundane, so routine that for a second Eleanor doubted she’d heard him right.

“What?” she asked.

“Did you smell the flowers?” Michael repeated, taking a step onto the balcony.

Eleanor backed away toward the railing. The balcony was small, maybe 10 ft long and 5 ft wide. Michael blocked almost the entire doorway.

“Michael, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice trembling betrayingly. “Why are you acting so strange?”

“Me? Strange?” He smirked, but there was no joy in it. “You’re the one acting strange. I brought you a gift, I wanted to make you happy, and you… you didn’t even smell them. You didn’t even say thank you properly.”

“I did say thank you,” Eleanor objected. “And I appreciate the gift. It’s just that the smell is very strong and I don’t feel well.”

“Always with your asthma,” Michael interrupted, and anger seeped into his voice. “Always some excuse. You forgot your inhaler, or the medicine is wrong, or you don’t like the smell. Maybe you just don’t want to accept what I give you.”

Eleanor fell silent. She looked at her husband and didn’t understand who was standing in front of her. 5 years together. Five years she thought she knew this person, and now he was standing here speaking to her in a tone she had never heard before. Accusatory, cold, alien.

“I’m going to get changed,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “And then we’ll talk calmly. Okay?”

She took a step toward the door. Michael didn’t move. She squeezed past him, her shoulder brushing against his, feeling how tense his body was.

In the hallway, she stopped, leaning against the wall. Her hands were shaking; her whole body was trembling. What was that? What just happened?

She went into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled out her phone. Her fingers were still shaking; she could barely dial a number.

But who to call? Her mom? And say what? “Mom, my husband brought me flowers and I’m scared.” It sounded insane. The police? “Hello, my husband gave me a bouquet, help.” They would laugh at her.

Cassie. She had said, “Bring me the flowers.” Immediately.

Eleanor shook her head. No, it was absurd. She wasn’t going to run to some homeless psychic with a bouquet like a frightened fool. This was her husband, her home. She just needed to calm down and talk to him normally.

The bedroom door opened. Michael came in without knocking. He had taken his shoes off, he was in jeans and a sweater, and he was looking at her with that same unreadable expression.

“What are you doing just sitting there?” he asked. “I thought we were celebrating your promotion.”

His voice had softened, almost like it was before. Eleanor looked up at him. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe she had worked herself up because of what that woman said.