stay? (for the peonies, please)

I think I love you. It comes out breathless; A blurted confession, a promise. Okay, she whispers. A devastating, beautiful smile lights up her features as she brushes her thumb over his lips. I love you too. 

(He can't keep a promise.)

He kisses her, and she kisses him back. He wakes up in bed, her body intertwined with his. Hand thrown over her face, arm wrapped around his chest, head curled under his collar. She's intoxicating. She makes him feel awake, makes him feel alive. 

Hey, he greets her as she wakes. She stretches, bracing her arms against his chest. Hey, she replies fondly, eyes squinting open at him. There's a newfound warmth in his sternum. It’s caffeine that’s sloshing around his veins, the persistent thrum in his ears. 

Let's go out for breakfast, she murmurs. There's a great cafe by the riverside. He drives her there, smiling at her rambling.

This is cute, she says happily, spinning around to take in the surroundings. He watches her from the table, holding his coffee. There are ripples in the clear water. His hands curl firmly around the cup, ignoring the burn. She rustles through a basket of flowers, plucking a pink and white peony. Put this in my hair, she demands. He smirks, already setting the coffee down. Magic word? 

Please. He takes the flower from her hands, feeling the slender stalk before beckoning her to sit in his lap. She leans back, humming. He begins to plate her hair into a braid, resting the flower on the table. He gently eases the flower into the braid, leaning back to survey his work. 

She pushes her phone into his hands. Take a picture? she asks. I want to see it. He quickly snaps a photo, handing it to her. She frowns. He tilts his head questioningly. What's wrong? 

Take it again, but with you in it. Make sure you smile, she reminds. He rolls his eyes fondly but does as she says. He quirks the corners of his mouth upwards into a light smile, crinkling his eyes. He hands it back to her, watching as she smiles with satisfaction. You should be a photographer, she remarks with a whistle. This is gorgeous. 

Not as gorgeous as you, he thinks. Instead, he shrugs. I picked it up somewhere. 

Thanks for breakfast, she says. Cya soon? He opens the door for her, cracking a smile. Of course, he replies. Call me whenever. 

(She calls him at 3 in the morning about a stray cat she found on her balcony. He clings to every word, instantly awake.)

Did you give the cat a name? He asks her as they drive back to her apartment. She frowns. No, not yet. As she gets out, she pauses, grabbing his wrist. Come on, she says. I want you to meet the cat. He trails after her with his hands balled into his pockets. 

She ushers him inside, shutting the door. Something stalks out from the shadows to greet her. Hey, kitty, she coos. The cat rubs against her legs, winding back and forth. It's a beautiful little thing: a gray pelt streaked with black markings, a tail tipped with white, piercing amber eyes. 

Got a name? she asks, jolting him from his musing. He scrambles for something, words fluttering through his thoughts. 

Maeve? He offers hesitantly. Her eyes light up, and he feels like he’s rumbling with contentment. Purrfect, she jokes. Get it? He flashes a smile, and a laugh escapes his tight lips. Got it. 

She sits on the floor, dangling her shoelaces for the cat to play with. He leans against the wall and watches. 

It's pretty dark outside, she comments, handing him a mug of chamomile tea. He takes it gratefully, breathing in the warmth of it. It is, he agrees quietly, sipping the tea. You know, you could stay over, she suggests, moving her hair out of her face to look at him. He sets the tea down. It meets the counter with a dull clink.

Only if you want me to. 

I do, she says softly. Please. 

He walks towards her and scoops her into a hug, craving the warmth of her body. He presses a kiss on her forehead. He stays. 

(The cat watches him, eyes glowing. Its gaze is scrutinizing and narrow, daring him to do something wrong. He swears not to. Repeatedly.)

Life takes its toll on him. He works, and he works, and the only thing that can fill him, make him feel good is her. Her face sculpted from marble, her cheeks touched by Love herself, her lithe figure and radiant smile. He comes to her with an ever-present hunger, a sharp pang that resonates throughout his body.

I want you so much that it hurts, he admits as she traces stars onto his backside. She lies beside him, humming. I need you, he begs her. It always hurts. 

I'm here, she tells him, littering his skin with trails of late-night kisses. I'll be here. He tugs her close and nuzzles h his head into the space between her shoulder and head. I love you, he mumbles, pressed into her skin. Love you too, she replies. 

Things don't get better.

He shows up at her doorstep. (Again.) She opens it. (Again.)

Tears are dripping down his face, along with the rain that soaks him to his core. She takes it all in, eyes sorrowful and helpless. Baby, what's wrong? She asks. I want to help you. You need to tell me what's wrong. 

There are tears on his face, a tightness in his throat, and a knife in his heart. 

She looks at him with a heartbroken gaze. Baby, it's gonna be okay, she says, wrapping him into a hug. He swallows roughly, shoving her away. 

No, he cries. Don't you understand? Everything hurts.

He gasps for air, choking on his thoughts. Breathe honey, breathe, she begs. He does as told because he could never ignore her. 

Do you want to go to bed? she suggests. You'll feel better in the morning. 

He stares blankly at the wall. I don't want to feel better, he snaps at her. He instantly feels guilty, knowing that she's just trying to help. Just leave me alone. 

(Magic word? A laugh, a hidden smile.)

(Please.) 

She leaves.

(This time, there's no magic.)

He wakes up alone on the couch, a bitterness crawling under his skin. He looks to the right and sees her asleep on a barstool with her head slumped onto the counter. Something ugly contorts within his heart. 

(He doesn’t want to feel full. He wants to starve himself until he’s dead.)

He eases himself off the couch, careful not to wake her. The door shuts with a click and he’s gone. 

He comes back to her, again and again. It's the world’s cruel way of reminding him of what he has to lose. He looks at her, and all he sees is his guilt and despair, the perfect mix of beauty in sadness. He kisses her, and he barely feels it. 

I love you, he says to her one night. She cards her hands through his hair, gently combing through the tangled strands. You know that right? he asks, with an air of desperation. Half of it love, half of it begging for reassurance. 

I know, she says, a heartbeat afterward. She keeps working through his hair. He twists in the bed to look at her, cupping a hand around her cheek and kissing her. She kisses him back as he slowly sinks deeper into the sheets.

(A heartbeat is far too long of a moment.)

There's regret nestled deep in his soul. Now he realizes how many things went unsaid, how many arguments he’s caused, and how many people he’s hurt. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

I love you because I'm sorry is so much more difficult. 

He takes her out to dinner. She wears a lovely floral dress that hugs and drapes around her shoulders. He smiles at her. She smiles back. To a year, he toasts, raising his glass. To a year, she replies, clinking her glass against his. He gazes at her. It takes time to heal, he’s learned. He can heal. 

She suggests therapy. He shuts it down as soon as possible. She brings it up again. He takes it to please her.

It's horrible. It feels like a self-vivisection, picking oneself apart and examining the bits under a glaring white light. Refusal, denial, refusal, denial. 

How did it feel? 

Like drowning.

How do you feel?

Like I'm drowning. 

Do you want to elaborate on that?

How was it? she asks once he comes back.

(Horrible, he wants to tell her.)

It was good, he says, a smile plastered onto his face. She beams, jumping up and wrapping her arms around him. Told ya, she whispers into his ear. Her breath is warm against his skin, welcoming in the chilly winter air. 

Later that night, he looks in the mirror and smiles. He tries. His lips are too stiff, his mouth is too tight, and it hurts to try. 

He tries again and again, to no avail. He flicks the lights off. Maeve watches him silently from the windowsill.

Time is not mending him. She is.

She waits for him day and night, standing silently by the door when he storms in. She wakes him up every morning. She forces him out of the apartment and to the park. 

Get up, she whispers. The sun has come out. He opens his eyes before abruptly closing them. She drags the covers off you. He stays in bed, limp. Something plops onto his back. Clothes, she states in a no-nonsense voice. Get dressed. He remains still. She waits a moment too long, swallowing.

(What’s the magic word?)

Please, she says gently. There’s something wrong. She sounds sad now. 

(Where’d the magic go?)

He props himself up against the headrest. What’s wrong? he rasps. She blinks at him furiously, hands clenched and shaking. Before he can inquire further, she’s gone. Turned on her heel and out of the room. The cat lazily jumps off the windowsill, following her out with a flick of its tail. 

He drags himself off the mattress and puts on the clothes. He heads out in search of her. 

She’s not in the apartment. In his frantic thoughts, it’s dark outside. She’s stumbling through the night as the rain pours down, hair soaked. Her tears mix with the rain and onto a blotchy canvas. 

He wakes up. It’s sunny outside. Birds chirp outside, wind rustling the green leaves. It’s spring, and the air screams for life. 

He wakes up. (The apartment is empty.)

He steps outside in a daze, biting the inside of his cheek. Did that happen? Did she leave? 

Yes, and yes, the emptiness answers for him. Even the cat is gone. Of course, she would take the cat. Staring at the sun and the blank blue sky, he considers calling her. Just to reassure her, to let her know that everything would be okay. That he would fix everything for good this time. 

He squints at the sky. It’s beautiful, on this day in particular. 

(Get up, the sun has come out.)

He wanders outside, phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks for things he’s never looked for: Truths embedded in the lines of a book, curiosity in the taste of soup, and frustration in the sound of a piano that he tries and tries to play. He’s chasing something that’s running further and further from him. But it’s okay. Maybe his life was meant to be spent chasing pointless, beautiful things. 

He lives. A year goes by. He lets go of his work. What good something if he can’t love it? He needs alternatives, better days. Days surrounded by flowers. He spends his days surrounded by beauty, basking in it, bathing in it. It reminds him of everything he once had.

(It hurts. It’s okay.)

Someone shows up and asks for carnations. He points them toward the pink ones, randomly remembering braiding peonies into her hair. His eyes water. He quickly wipes them dry. The guy catches him looking at the peonies. 

What do those stand for? 

A lot of things. Good things.

He smiles. My fiance loves peonies. She’s always braiding them into her hair.  

(Take a picture. Take it again, but with you in it. Make sure you smile.)

His lips fold inward. A sad smile, a grimace. As he leaves, he stops him. Presses a cluster of peonies into his empty hand. For your fiance. The word is sour on his tongue, croaked out from his lips. The guy grins unknowingly. Thanks, man. Appreciate it. 

He watches him leave, thinking about all he’s lost and gained in a year. 

(None of the good things add up to her.)

The universe must hate him because the guy comes back. A gold wedding band on his finger, a skip in his step. He sits quietly in the corner as he enters. Hey! I know it’s been ages, but thanks for the peonies. They got me married. 

Congratulations. The word is sullen and hollow, painted over with false joy. He can’t bring himself to hate the guy. He’s the one with problems, after all. 

The guy smiles. Peonies? 

His head screams as he stands up. Peonies. 

He doesn’t see the guy for six years. Six years of peace, sulking, and living. He adopts a dog. An old, brown lab with a gray-flecked muzzle. She’s a quiet, sweet thing. Like him, she’s tired of life, but more so tired of being alone.

He’s walking her, sinking in slow realization after realization. He has a dog. He turns 30 tomorrow. He’s planning to bake himself a cake tomorrow. He bakes. It’s mindblowing to him, how all this time has passed.

He’s at the supermarket, comparing two different kinds of granola, debating whether or not to try something new. Wailing resonates in the aisle. He frowns. A packet of fruit gummies hurtles toward him, connecting with his arm. He startles, looking around him. A toddler is laughing at him, with a horrified-looking mom. She’s so familiar, so real, he knows her. She’s so her, and it hurts.

(Peonies. Peonies, peonies, peonies.)

Her husband turns around the corner, an apologetic look in his eyes. They widen with recognition. He knows him too from the same, painful peonies.

I am so sorry! She says, shooting a reprimanding look at the toddler. He shakes his head. It’s fine. She quickly hands the toddler to his dad, who greets him quickly before hurrying off. He watches as they disappear, soft noises echoing in the cereal aisle. 

She stares at him curiously. He can see her mind racing. 

Do I know you? 

(Yes. Yes, you do. You know me from your hair, from the photos. From the cafe, from the river, from all those midnight kisses, this sweet, drowning love. You know me from the cat, from the rough mornings. From the slow depreciation of my soul, all my mourning, these bloody tears shed from begging.)

(From the peonies.)

From the peonies, he breathes out, without a second thought. Her ears twitch. My bad, I couldn’t catch that. 

He smiles sadly. Sorry, I didn’t say anything. I just– He swallows against the lurch of his throat. He breathes out slowly.  I don’t think we’ve met before. He holds out his hand. Alex, he offers, his heart jumping nervously. She nods slowly, confused.  Julie, she says, taking his hand and shaking it. She smiles, worrying her lip. Sorry, but you just look so familiar! I can’t place it. 

(It’s for the best, it’s for the best.)

Peonies, he thinks as he smiles at her. I have that sort of face. 

They part ways for the second time. She leaves with her husband and kid. He remains alone in the cereal aisle, the two granolas resting against the shelf. He picks up the old one, contemplating.

In the end, he leaves them be, walking out of the store empty-handed.