sunkissed, worldless

11

Florists aren't the most popular vocation anymore, regardless if roses are as edible as they say. Unless, she supposes, if you're Tia. She gives off that certain energy, rejuvenating almost. And plus, she had to get those essential oils from somewhere.

It's a necessity, it's a habit. But one she hasn't really been thinking about recently.

She would arrive in the city, stop by the florist before the visit. Rosburg has a cute establishment around the corner not far from the graveyard. It was made of glass, it was a greenhouse, it has moss and vines growing on the extended veranda, it was probably hard to clean and water.

Adele later finds out it was fake anyway.

At some point she stopped telling them it's for her grandmother, because she doesn't like playing the same lines and answering questions she knows are part of a polite concern. But they act like she's freshly dead, "No, she's been gone for a while. It doesn't hurt anymore." It specifically doesn't hurt anymore.

One time she says it's a pet rabbit and the reactions seem much more funnier, detached almost when she keeps up the lie. While they're giving their condolences, she insists on a handful of daisies instead of an understated, sentimental long-stemmed lily. Why spend so much on a pet? Why get flowers from a florist?

"Fiona was like family."

"She must be really special to you."

Adele ends up talking about Fiona the bunny like she talks about her grandmother.

She gets a mild headache when she wakes up, groggy with the 9 AM sun. There's a songbird melody coming from the same woods they visited and she unzips herself from the bag. She crawls out and stands up, drinks some water and stare down the former campfire.

Olivia is still sleeping with what's left of the translucent moon near the horizon, Adele lets her and opens her book for some light morning reading.

       Even in the city you look for a place that
       welcomes you. You actually
       want to be found!
       Being found is the polar opposite of making a vow.
       You are a pot of gold and not the arc of a rainbow.
       When you sit down on a stone, face up to the sun,
       you can't help but
       think, Mine, mine.
       And you don't have to promise anything
       to anyone in time.

These days she has too many things to tell, but not the right people to say it to. She can't bring herself to trust adults beyond how they react, what she knows they'll say, the advice like cookie dough with salmonella cut like a gingerbread man.

She feels sick from hearing it, or maybe because she hasn't eaten yet. They still have that olive bread leftovers but Adele isn't in a mood to start the fire again so they'd have to eat it cold from the night before. People bring their bows while traveling to hunt. Adele doesn't really have a taste for it.

Eventually, Olivia too sits up, the lid of her sleeping bag awkwardly folding up her chest.

"Morning, sunshine," she rests the book on her lap, turns in her seat on the log. "Hungry?"

Olivia rubs her eyes, thinks that's a stupid question from the way she frowns. "Yes."

Adele fixed her a sly gaze, lies through her teeth. "I ate everything."

She pauses in disbelief, she looks like she's about to jolt off the ground and pounce but— "Cool."

Olivia can hear her think, or so she says, but it doesn't really work the other way around. Olivia says she's no good at hiding things but never points a finger at it, lets the undercurrents move. Adele does that to her too, except reading her comes with its own biases.