Fleurs Chanceuses

Feelings are a strange thing. I wonder who it was that gave the name love to these feelings. Love is an evil thing really --the Devil’s work. This was my motto for the first 18 years of my life. I lived by it. It was a mantra that, like the dust culminated at the bottom of a dustpan, would eventually be thrown out the back door. It was let go and it took to the wind. All of the walls I’d spent so many years building up with brick and mortar had crumbled down into a fine powder-- an ancient dust. Something like the dust on top of books in old houses gathered on the page’s ends like a forgotten memory. It made you cough to breathe, but upon opening the pages a smile would creep on to your lips, and there it would stay as you read over the foolish words that had once meant so much, made so much sense. But these words were childish, for you were now older and wiser. Just like the dust on books and the words on its pages, Love is an evil thing, really-- the Devil's work would just be a string of words in a dusty novel, forever shelved away in the library of my memories. I was young and scared. This motto was just a preface of what was to come. If I had known that one day I would meet him I would have never been scared of a thing in my life. 

It was possible my infatuation with The Blonde Boy started at that cafe in Maine. Maybe it was because of his beauty. Maybe it was the fact that he was an obvious coffee snob, the fact that he was at a cafe reading Nietzsche at 5AM, or that he insisted on smelling every single flower in that damn cafe. Then again, they were all one and the same. It was everything that I’d observed that winter morning that made him so beautiful. He was an alien, foreign to me and to my hands, to my lips, and to my very being. I remember pressing the rim of the dark green mug to my lips and sipping my black coffee-- it was a Kenyan roast, I could tell from the floral aroma. He hadn’t realized how long I’d been staring due to the fact that he was so wrapped up in “On the Genealogy of Morality” to be bothered to notice. So I broke the silence. “The worst enemy you can meet will always be yourself,” I said. He looked taken aback, but chimed in “You lie in wait for yourself...”  A soft smile played at the corners of his lips. “In caverns and forests,” we spoke in unison. “You know your Nietzsche.” He said and got up from his chair and sat next to me, but not before marking his spot in the book.

 I was sitting on a brown leather couch in the far right corner of the cafe. The whole cafe was a work of art. I was sat on the couch next to the bookshelf and fireplace, and these were on a wall of green velvet. Pure artistry-- as was The Blonde Boy. My thoughts of rubbing my cheek to the soft wall were interrupted by the thud of him plopping down next to me. To be frank, I jumped a bit. He had such an overwhelming presence. I wasn’t one to believe in energies and auras, but he was like a light purple-- a calming lavender. One look into his eyes and I felt tired and dizzy like in a split second I could melt into his arms. He smiled and gave a small wave, it was awkward due to the closeness but still a beautiful sight nonetheless. Hi, he said. Hi. This was our language. Our language of “Hi’s”. Though the word was spelled the same, and it was the same word, the meaning behind each repetition of “Hi” meant something different. His “hi” meant Oh! I’m shy...Won’t you please help me out? I’m not good at this flirting thing. My “hi” was equally as awkward, and meant I’m sorry, I am equally as shy...but as long as I can gaze at your flower face, I am okay with the silence. Actually, I quite like it. Yes, Flower Face. I’d studied his wispy blonde hair and his fluffy, but well-kept eyebrows, his glowing complexion, and his lavender colored aura. Flower Face, a nickname that had taken me little time to pull together, but that I felt meant so much-- held so much emotion. So how would I acquire the love of beautiful Flower Face? I had no idea and had no clue that he’d fallen just as easily as I. So with the feeling of butterflies in my stomach, and fire on my cheeks, I decided that it was better to speak than to die here never having uttered a word to Flower Face.

“Nietzsche wasn’t a Nihilist, you know,” I said in an attempt to break the silence. He nodded in response and smiled while playing with the hem of his white button-down. 

“Right...most people think that he was Nazi. In reality, it was his sister who edited some of his works to make it seem that way. A Nazi nihilist isn’t very far fetched, though.” He snickered, and so did I. There was sort of an awkward silence that fell on us in the cafe that morning. Maybe it was the fact that it was only 5:30, but it was probably just the fact that we were both painfully awkward. And that was okay. 

“I uh- I haven’t seen you around here before. I’m here nearly every morning.” I said, not looking into his crystal blue eyes and instead, fiddling with the green velvet wall beside me. 

“I just moved here last week, actually. Live right by a lake with nothing but all of my favorite books and a husky...,” He shrugged “I’d just left my house and I stole her from my neighbors. I’ve seen what happens to every pet they get.” He sighed and looked into my eyes. “You ever saw something so horrible...so,” His eyes became glossy as his hands gripped his book tightly, “Just so awful that there’s something beautiful about it? The more hurt, the more scars, the more trauma, the more beautiful. Art is born from emotion. So the more intense the emotion, the better the art.” Finally coming out of it, he sheepishly smiled.   

“You’re very opinionated, I can tell,” I said as he took a sip of his coffee. I knew how wide I was smiling, and I knew what it entailed. I wanted him to know how much I needed him.

“And you aren’t?” He chuckled. “You read Neitzsche, I know you are.” His voice sent shivers through my whole body and his crystal blue eyes turned me to stone. Medusa was beautiful, you know. That’s how she got men to look her way, and when they did they’d be frozen in time. When my eyes met his I turned to stone. I couldn’t move my hands or my legs, and I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. 

At a loss for words, I blurted, “What’s your dog’s name?” I knew this had nothing to do with what we’d been previously discussing, but I was having trouble forming cohesive sentences. 

“Her name’s Estelle.” He smiled and shook his head. “Cutest dog you’ll ever meet, and the sweetest too. She seems to be doing alright which is surprising, considering how little her previous owners cared about her.” Flower Face flashed me a sad smile.

I shakily reached my slim, pale fingers over to his large, sun-kissed hands and squeezed softly. “I’m sure Estelle will be just fine. That’s a French name, right? Estelle?” Wherever this courage in me came from, I was proud of it. 

Flower Face flinched slightly but quickly relaxed into my touch. He took a second to move a little closer. To my surprise, he melted like butter under my hands. His knee to the side of my thigh, and his hands holding mine in his lap. 

“Mhmm,” He uttered, barely audible. Flower Face didn’t remove his gaze from our intertwined fingers. He was studying the veins in my hands, and all of the lines and bruises-- I could tell.  “I have something I want to try...” He stood up hastily and briskly walked out of the cafe. He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the light brown Vista Cruiser I’d been eyeing on my way into the cafe. I smiled. Figures, I thought. Flower Face wore cuffed, baggy jeans with beat-up brown leather boots and a sloppily tucked in white collared shirt. He was the canvas of Vincent Van Gough. He was the masterpiece of a natural-born artist. No, he didn’t know he was art, and he didn’t try to be. But there’s truth in what he was saying. The more hurt...The more pain-- the more beautiful the art. And he was by far the most beautiful disaster I had ever seen. 

My thoughts were interrupted when he sat down next to me, this time closer than before. He was holding a light blue polaroid camera. Flower Face smiled at me and intertwined our left hands and held them up in front of the green velvet wall. Click! He fed the photo through the slot and snapped another. Click! “And of course, you get one too.” He handed me the already developed one and I smiled. I pulled a black Sharpie from my wallet and pressed it to the bottom half of the polaroid. 

I looked at his hair and his shoulders, taking in the artistry of his frame. I smiled, remembering his “purple aura” and wrote Royalty. 

“Is that what we’re calling this piece?” I could hear the grin spreading over his face and I nodded. 

“Purple is the color of royalty,” I said and picked up both of his hands, left in left… right in right, “And you, my love, are lavender.” I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. Especially poetic drama.

“I’m merely the artist. You’re the real subject. True art.” His voice seemed unable to break a sweet whisper.

Unable to handle the intimacy of the situation, we both started giggling, then laughing uncontrollably at nothing at all. When we finally stopped to breath I wiped my eyes and he just chuckled and looked at me. Once again, there was silence. Me looking at him and him looking right back at me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to reach out and hold his face. 

“Any chance you’d like to come over for dinner?” He knew my answer, but he still sounded weary and unsure of what the outcome would be. 

I nodded while writing the date on the back of my polaroid. December 6th, 1984. “Any chance you’d like to tell me your name?” I teased and he shoved me playfully with his shoulder. 

“Ross.” He said and held out his hand for me to shake. 

“Rae.” I smiled and, instead of shaking his hand, intertwined my fingers with his once again.  

I knew that 1984 would be my year. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE-

I have about 3,000 words for this story written altogether, but I shortened it for this. I do intend to make this a full-length book.