Little Girl Blue - 𝐖𝐋𝐖

𝐈. Ludus- Eight

"I have a delivery to make."

"A delivery?"

It was after lunch. I had taken up the seat by the window, shamelessly watching Jane below watering the plants. I had been watching like a perv, constantly losing my place in my book as she carried the pail.

When she was done she came in the house, legs stained of grass and dirt, breathing heavily while wiping at her forehead when she asked.

"... Yes, we have some left over flowers and Greta has asked if she could have the rest. Would you like to come with me?"

"Sure." Though I had made it sound like this delivery was as important to me as it was to her. In truth, I hadn't finished analyzing Jane and needed another moment to figure out what had gotten me so consumed.

With a nod she left. Only returning minutes later, clean and rid of the overalls, smelling of fresh jasmine and cherry blossom. I had also changed, jeans (that thankfully fit) and the shirt from the gas station, muddy sneakers strapped to my feet.

Jane had unraveled a newspaper, binding the stems of the flowers with twine. I had watched her, intently staring at her fingers work with the material, occasionally catching the news header for the week: Hottest Week in the Year Since '02 and a Buy One Get One Free coupon for Pillsbury cinnamon rolls at the local FoodMart.

"Are you going to stare at me all day because if so I'd prefer to leave you here." The bouquets of flowers were cradled in her arms.

My eyes rolled, "You wouldn't allow it. You've made it clear you don't like me being alone "

She grabbed the keys from a crooked nail on the wall, twirling them around her finger. "Don't be so sure of yourself, missy."

I followed along outside to the garage, aimlessly kicking pebbles before the flowers were shoved into my arms.

"And why not? I think you fail to understand Ms Donovan that I'm an adult."

With the engine started and her hand placed on the back of my headrest, a scoff left her mouth, "It's like you're trying to prove it to me."

I didn't respond, finding solace in the petals of the flowers, stroking each soft layer. The drive into town was another long and dreadful one. She had one of those macrame dreamcatchers dangling from the rearview mirror and each time we would go over a bump or hit a turn it would violently swish.

Fatimah had one just like it, hanging right by her pillow except she of course had made this one with all of its intricate patterns and knots. It swayed again in a mocking manner, beads and feathers clinking together.

Then we went over a bump.

And that was enough for me to lurch forward, grabbing at its neck to remove it from my gaze. The leather making small rips while the soft end of a feather tickled my whitening hands. With a tug it unraveled from the mirror, beads flying about the car with a noise that sounded like large raindrops.

I cranked down the window, hot and nauseated with a heaving chest.

Jane looked over the arm that stayed firmly on the wheel, eyes piercing me, green and troubled. "Should I ask?"

There were strands of hair crowding my vision,"It was annoying me."

We turned into a neighborhood. White picket fence, the greenest grass, tall brick homes. A group of kids sat rallied around a porch, colored popsicles dripping down their chin.

I sunk lower into my seat. The flowers fallen from my lap, leaves now littering the carpet. There was a house with a fairly nice car in the driveway, the same color tan with white trim as the rest of the homes, rose bushes lining the stone steps.

Jane reached over me and grabbed the flowers, running a few limp petals between her fingers. I sat with my eyes down, unmoving and flustered.

She patted my thigh. "Well, come on then."

I complied, though protested with a frustrated sigh, and left the car. "Greta," I said, "she's that singer from the bar?"

She rung the doorbell. "If you ask her she'll say performer." As if there was much of a difference.

I nodded, remembering the purple dressed lady with the tacky lipstick, juggling a beer bottle and microphone.

But that wasn't who opened the door. It was a woman around Jane's age, tall and blonde. "Look who it is... Jane Donovan and..." She looked at me, arms crossed leaning against the polished doorframe.

"A friend." Jane budged in, "Is your grandmother here?"

She shook her head, "Just headed to the dry cleaners. Something about her new dress being ruined and blah blah blah." The woman mocked with her hands. It seemed as just then she noticed the bouquets, "And you brought me flowers! Janie you haven't done this for me since high school!" Hand flying to her heart.

I looked at Jane, flowers now out of her grasp, lips tucked firmly between her teeth. "Tell her I stopped by, would you?"

I took that as my cue to walk back to the car. Barely off of the first step the woman tugged at Jane's elbow. "You know I don't know nothin' about taking care of flowers." And pulled her inside.

With wide eyes Jane was snatched in the house, daring me to leave and go sit in the car. They were already in the kitchen when I came in, me rushing to Jane's side to hide behind a broad shoulder.

The woman was talking to herself. Or to Jane, but I could tell she wasn't listening. Her southern accent was thick, cutting off the endings of words and continuously touching her chest when something was said. Against her back Jane was stoic, responding with small phrases, sometimes taking a glance over her shoulder to peer down at me.

"She left you a pie, I think its sittin' in the oven." She stoped uraveling the flowers and checked the oven, "Yep they're in the oven." Her hand went to touch the edge of the dish and burned her finger.

Jane sighed, her back no longer covering me as she walked close to the woman. There was a rag around the handle of the oven, one she covered her fingers with and took out the pie. "Still clumsy, I see."

The woman smiled, sucking on her finger. "I've just missed you so much, Jane." Though there wasn't any excitement in her voice. It was longing, sad. For a moment I thought she would cry.

"I missed you too." Jane responded and wrapped her arms around the woman's thin shoulders.

I looked elsewhere, feeling like an unwanted guest intruding on a long awaited reunion. The house was decorated nicely, fine china, dozens of pictures, a small bar cart, nice, thick curtains.

Every now and then I'd listen in on the conversation, catching a phrase or the sound of the woman moving around, disheveled.

"....What has it been, six years?" The woman.

"....I told you Kaylee she's just a friend," Jane.

"You could've kept in touch."

"You know I like my space."

This one was the most unexpected. "I never stopped loving you. Even after all this time, still, I love you," whispered by Kaylee.

I had circled around the large dinning table and found my way back into the kitchen. They stood side by side at the sink, arms touching, lips just shy of a kiss.

Jane took a glance at me, quickly averting her eyes. "We should get going."

The pie was cooled and goodbyes were given. Kaylee, the blonde, who somehow learned my name turned to me and spoke, "Nice meeting you, Florence." And to Jane, "Don't be a stranger, my number hasn't changed." And finally before she shut the door, "Thank you for the flowers!"