Song: Dead Leaves

Walking in the park

I am reminded of you

smelling the flowers

I smile at the tart

taste that starts to fill my mouth

when I see their thorns

It's been five months since I was last on this bench. (Before, of course, I sat down on it approximately half an hour ago.)

Eleven, since the same white roses which used to fill me with such joy have peered up at me, but only seven since the same cold rain has poured over me, washing me with the same dust infused droplets.

But my life isn’t the same.

Hasn’t been since three months ago.

I sigh, looking up at the dreary gray sky, and thinking that the clouds look an awful lot like imprints left in mud from careless passerby too busy to notice the sludge on the soles of their shoes.

Of course, once they do notice, their instinct is to wipe it off. And some clouds look smeared too.

Oh look. There’s one in the shape of cloud. How surprising.

I wonder what else the world will surprise me with, in an obvious sort of way.

Perhaps all of the roses will die within an instant, with me as the center of a perfect circle, and a radius of a years.

It’s a dreary sort of day, one which simultaneously pulls up dark thoughts and shields me at the same time. I suppose I should be grateful, but really, it doesn't make much of a difference at this point.

And it’s not only the skies that are being gross. No.

As a result of those skies, my shirt, as blue as my fingertips, is doused in streaks of wet, appropriately clinging disgustingly to my skin. My skin, which is translucent from the lack of sunshine, and has those resulting splotches of pink, is far from what anyone would call “beautiful,” being too gray and sickly to be a pearly, vibrant, healthy, color.

The rain adheres to my face, which is of the same pallor as my body, smoothing over the rough epidermis of my cheeks, forehead, nose.

And my nose is being cleared, thanks to the brisk, fresh air. A strange occurrence during a rainstorm, but one that happens nonetheless.

A stray goose flies overhead, blocking out the sun which was still vibrant behind the cumuli. And then it’s visible again, before hiding once more, but behind a thicker cloud this time.

That brief moment reminds me of a dark chocolate mousse, with the radiance shining between the layers of gray. A gray whose first layer turns litmus blue, whose second layer turns thymol blue the same, and whose following layers are all able to turn phenolphthalein magenta.

It’s basic behind its acidity.

The rain slows to a drizzle, but it’s not as if that matters to me anyways. My eyes are already stinging from the impure precipitation.

My hair, which has remained black for the past three months, is already a stringy and tangled mess, almost begging to be combed out. Instead, I run it through once with my fingers, before tying it back in a ponytail. Because of how messy it is, perhaps it really does look like the tail of a horse.

A buzz, signifying that I have just received a notification on my cell phone. Without having to check, I know what it’s about.

Cue another grandiose sigh, and I heave myself off of the bench and onto the pavement, surreptitiously wiping off the wet of my - surprise - gray sweatpants, even though I know that it’s to no avail. Water does not simply unstick to itself. It’s polar no matter what.

Some things are just constant in life.

Others are not.

Like the new flower shop I spot, situated halfway between the park and my home.

It has a sign, written in a chartreuse and shamrock flowery script, which reads Des Fleurs Angéliques, with the accent and all. Despite my limited knowledge of French, I still think that the whole font and title is presumptuous. Pompous, even. For if something were truly angelic, would it really call itself so? I do realize that it means of the angelic flowers, but it still seems haughty to me.

Just when I turn to walk away, the door opens, letting loose the soft chimes of door bells, as well as the smell of sage, lavender, sakura, and jasmine. As if in a trance, my limbs take me to the threshold, where I am greeted by rows and rows of untrimmed, un-“finished” flowers. They have not had their dead spots trimmed off, the ends of their stems sharpened, nor have they been dethorned.

The same tart taste assaults my tastebuds, but this time I do not smile. If a host is unwelcoming, why must I be the one to remain courteous? It’s better to leave.

But then the flavor dissipates, and I blink hard, effectively sharpening both the image traveling via my eyes and the thoughts in my head.

I notice the boy at the same time that he notices me.

He carefully places the broom he was holding (and using) in a corner, double checking to make sure that it won’t fall over, before practically tripping over himself to get to me.

The ardor in his voice is rivaled only by his face. I somewhat expected that to happen, in the point - five seconds that I had to make any assumptions about him, although the baritone pitch of his speech is somewhat startling. But not off-putting.

He has to repeat himself in order for me to understand what he said the first time. “Sorry, I was just excited. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m just loo--” I start hesitantly, before changing my mind. “Yes, actually. I, uh.” I swallow, my throat heavy and croaky from days of disuse. I clear it with an, “ahem. Sorry. Could you pack up thirty- one daisies for me?”

He nods. “Of course. What color would you like?”

Without missing a beat, I reply, “white. And gold. Please.”

He lifts an eyebrow in shock. “If don’t mind me saying, miss, that’s a bit of an unusual combination.”
 

I shrug, successfully pulling off an air of nonchalance. “It just happened that way.”

“Yes, I see. Is there a particular amount that you would like for each color?” His tone is somber. I belatedly realize that he thinks the white flowers are for a funeral, or for a tombstone, and paired with gold, the color of the center of attention, is a bit odd. Then again, gold also represents freedom from worldly cares, so while unconventional, it is, in a way, very appropriate indeed.

I smile. “If you could wrap up twenty- nine white daisies with the two gold in the center, that’d be fantastic, Mister.”

He sets off to work, with no more than a nod of acknowledgement, carefully picking out daisies according to criteria that I do not understand. He bends over, inspects, turns a few perfectly fine - in my eyes, at least - flowers in favor of one hiding behind. Sometimes he glances down, says, “aha!” and plucks one that seems perfect to him right out of the container.

After a few repetitions of this, the swinging of a green disk of a pendant catches my eye.

“Is that emerald?” I ask before I even realize.

He fumbles his fingers, before responding with, “I'm sorry, what?”

I point even though the focus of his eyes are solely on the task before him. “Your pendant.”

His chin dips down a bit, as if he's checking. “No. It’s jade, actually.”

“Ah,” I say, leaving it at that.

Thought I know nothing of floristry, I am mesmerized by his nimble fingers, which are now clipping this and that, smoothening out the stem, and doing various other things that I cannot comprehend.

It provides me a temporary relief from my thoughts.

His face is scrunched with concentration, his back hunched over the table of clippings, and his tongue is poking out of the side of his mouth. His tall nose is crumpled cutely and twitches every so often, like a rabbit’s. Textured, chestnut brown hair falls into his eyes as he reaches for a red ribbon and an iridescent wrapping.

Short moments later, he hands me the finished bouquet, and I duly utter a soft “wow.”

Each daisy seems as if they were meant to be paired with the others, and the glimmer of the wrapping makes the white petals glow, and the gold petals shimmer. The ribbon is crimson, and tied into a perfect bow. Even the wrapping itself is immaculate, without any trace of the tape used to hold it together.

I look up at him, and he’s looking at the flowers in my hand with a satisfied smile.

“Are they all right?” he still asks, genuine concern furrowing his brow.

“They're gorgeous. How much do I owe you?”

He seems to snap himself out of a stupor. “Oh. Payment. Right,” he says, walking to the counter and pulling out a calculator. “Let’s see… Twenty nine white daisies… Plus two gold daisies… That’ll be thirty thousand won, please.”

I hand him my credit card without thought, slightly impressed by how relatively inexpensive the bouquet is.

He gives it back seven seconds later. “Thank you for coming to my shop, Miss. If you need more flowers, I'll be here.”

With a small thanks and a bow, I'm out of the shop and on my way back home.

~

I can hear the TV and the laughs coming from inside my home even before I turn the key.

Sure enough, on the sofa opposite the television lies a lump with white hair, laughing hysterically at something plastered in the screen. He’s clutching a pillow to his chest, and another rests under his head, and he spares me a glance before turning back to the tube.

“Hey. You're sopping wet. You look like a wet dog,” are the first words he says.

And indeed I am. I wonder why the boy at the flower shop didn't say anything, but then again, I suppose that he could've been worried about losing patronage.

But I don't dignify him with a response.

“Yeonsoo, please tell me that you didn't buy more ice cream all for yourself.”

I slip my sneakers - converse, because he hates them - off and place it on the shoe rack, before throwing the bouquet at his face.

“When did I?” I snap, my eyes flashing.

“Hey!” he says. “Why’d you give me white flowers? I'm not dead.”

“Keep your attitude up and your white hair maintained any longer, and you will be,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, but he still hears me anyways.

“Rude,” he huffs.

I shrug, with the sole goal of infuriating him, and walk towards my room.

But it doesn't elicit any reaction.

Well, until he realizes that, I did, in fact, flip him off as well, at which point I am already at my door, and to which he promptly yells, “MIN YEONS--”

SLAM!