Short Story | Salvia and Dandelion Bouquet

    Bright-eyed, young girl. But not blue or green. That usually didn’t matter—not in every case. It only ever hurts when you're right there. And I can see you working, your hand in your hair, brushing it back. You blink and you flush, you purse your lips, and again, you tilt your eyes down, back at your work. I can see you working. The tide falls away, and I don’t care. For a moment. Then I fall back in—I don’t know why. I hate the cliché and the overdone, but I can’t help how my mind only works in loops.

    Fingertips tap against the blank, dark table, thinking about something distant and unreachable. My hair isn’t blonde; for you, I could imagine that it were. My skin isn’t delicate like powder or freckled across my nose. I’m un-American, feasibly. I gather my stones and weigh them in a paper scale, add wood chips to one side, pebbles in the other. I pick up a stick, and suddenly, it’s my sword. I stain my knees green and rip my skin against asphalt. I can’t imagine being any older, but time is cruel and passes regardless.

    The promise of reciprocation is at the mercy of generosity. For un-American girls. The rain makes my clothes wet, and I squeeze out the residual drops, even though I still stand in the downpour. The dress I’ll make will be blue, and the shoes I’ll wear will leave my feet bubbled and aching. I’ll stand outside, sinking into murky dirt, the pedestal that makes me taller sinking further into the earth. I’ll whisper things to the snowfall, admit that I can’t recognize dream from reality.

    There’s no screen on the window, no barrier from the roof. I step out, recognizing the creak of the tile and the anticipatory slip from my bare feet in the frigid cold. I’ll sit on the snow, let my body tense as it absorbs the ice from the weather and paints the terracotta tile. Four feet from the ledge, and I don’t reach out or look over—I’m stuck to the clapboard sheathing. White snow falls from a dark sky; only when the ground is painted cold enough does the sky seem lighter and the moon brighter. I paint freckles onto my nose, imagine my skin shedding away to be brighter, more lovely. My hair tenses up and coils unnaturally; the snow coats my hair and paints it brighter. I close my eyes.

    And for a moment, you’re there—but I’m uncomfortable in this cold, and the snow on my feet has already melted. I reach for the windowsill, sliding against the side of my house, unfamiliar with the texture of the exterior. I swing one leg through, then the other, and I land on my bed. My clothes are wet in some places and damp in others. But I’m warm now, even though I still shake. It doesn’t matter, because I’ll end up outside again tomorrow night.