SUNSHINE KISSES

02 | flower bud

02

flower bud
first sight and second

ALSTROEMERIAS, jonquils, mayflowers. Dots of light appeared in the aubergine sky, the first stars of the night. Lukewarm coffee dregs, a half-eaten scone with the raspberries picked out, and the tap tap tap of her foot synchronised to the rain. She notices something against the grey swirls of concrete and clouds. Soft, supple, bright like the eyes of a newborn fawn.

The point of light pulsates.

She watches him with curiosity.

The boy greets her first, with a politely reserved "good morning," and a nod of his head.

The starkness of his snowy skin against the shadow of his cheekbones cast by the fluorescent lights overhead makes him look ill, but Juno attributes it to the rain. His voice is reminiscent of chamomiles, comprised of soothing dulcet tones, but the rest of him is dishevelled and his tangled hair can almost brush his closed eyelids. He was handsome, she'll admit, in a porcelain sort of way with thin arched eyebrows, chatoyant eyes and a glossy veneer.

Paired against his beauty, it seems almost trivial to mention the feeling of intrigue she feels seeing the composition of his face. It was beautiful in an unconventional manner, something that wouldn't be out of place on a Tokyo billboard or an artist's canvas.

He shuts his eyes and they remain in silence for the rest of the duration of their stay at the greenhouse.

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"It's good to see you again."

"Is it really?"

"I suppose not — I thought you were doing quite well when we decided to adjourn your appointments. What's bothering you?"

"I'm not sure."

He jotted this down on the thick notepad sitting on his desk in a messy scrawl, watching the boy in his peripheral vision. Schoenberg played softly in the background from a CD player with a large scratch down its side.

"Are you still taking the medication?"

"No, I need to get a new prescription."

"Let's begin with that, then."

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The wind's breathy whispers envelope her clammy skin in a gossamer blanket. Her feet pad along the smooth pavement as her half-moon fingernails cut into the spider's web silk of her skin. Her breaths come in sets of fours and are succeeded by a sigh, then a displeasured shake of her head.

"I thought people like you enjoyed soirées."

Though it had been at least a week since their last meeting, she could remember the lilt of his honeyed voice, the placement of freckles forming a constellation in the nebula of his left cheek and the quirk of his blooming lips. Things that came in threes were inherently more fulfilling than that of twos or fours.

"People like me?"

"People like you."

He passes her a bottle of blood orange flavoured Pellegrino.

The taste revives memories of summer nights that taste like citrus sherbet, empty tennis courts and the half-dreamt fantasies of summer.

"It's been a while since we've met," he says, popping the metal cap off his bottle and taking a swig. The new animation in his movements hadn't been present before.

In the pale twilight her goldenrod hair looks as soft as moth wings.

"So what's your reason for being here?"

The clouds have long since lost their shape and melted into the milky sky. Time travels like honey down her throat, warm and slow and nostalgic.

"McKinley invited me, but I got tired. And it was stuffy inside the hall. And you looked like you needed something sweet."

Good things came in threes.

— four five six