SUNSHINE KISSES

01 | thirty celsius

01

thirty celsius
bright and honeyed

5:38 ON a Wednesday morning meant cold showers and dimming street lights and the drip drip drip of brewing coffee, soft embers illuminating blissfully unaware suburban streets, lavender bruised eyelids, sunshine spilling from the slanted window of her room to pool on the ground with her filmy curtains, the slipping away of the prior night's misdoings, and orange marmalade on burnt toast.

Though crisp and uninviting the morning air, the presence of routine was welcome. Wind whipped at her apple blossom cheeks as she collected dew-drenched newspapers from the driveway. The city stirred from its serene slumber, woken by the buttercup sun and whistling of engines.

A stifling silence.

Rhythmic pacing, laced patent leather shoes, a sudden hush as the train arrives, and the clamouring for a seat on the upper level.

Finally, the crackly voice of the train conductor announcing their arrival at Saint James station.

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5:38 on a Wednesday afternoon meant reclining on a canapé pushed against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the library, lazily flipping through Gibson's Guide to Inorganic Chemistry, drawing animals instead of taking notes, a white shower of crystals tossed in the air, and Méchant Loup on repeat. Pleasant days like these appeared to be brief in the late sultry summer, typically turning overcast in the evenings not unlike her mood.

Frogs bask in the afternoon sun and now that the March is at an end maybe everyone's front lawns will finally turn green again. There are Japanese maples that circumscribe the dull water of the pond and their leaves have been bruised a burnt butterscotch in preparation for the colder months.

Mediocre days have been passed doing mediocre things. She can feel herself wilting from the inside out.

Someone playing the violin in the hall. Cheeks stained a dusky rose from sitting in the sun, rose thorns embedded in her skin from the after-lunch soccer game; she flinches when it draws a vermillion pearl of blood and wipes it off on the waistband of her school skirt to leave a dark red mark. Soft fingers are stringing dandelions into chains.

It is an idle season.

。three days